The Confession
by Hemmingweigh
Summary: Carson comes to stark realizations about his life and his feelings for Mrs. Hughes, and finally asks her for a moonlit walk in the garden. AU story paints a dark, vivid picture of Elsie's past, leading to a secret connection to one of the house staff.
1. Chapter 1

**The Confession**

It was another moonlit night, one where the air was so clear and the sky so vast it almost hurt your senses to take it in. Deep inside the house, Carson twisted the small key in the lock of one of the silverware cupboards, as he always did, then pulled it out and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Normally he would have turned and walked automatically to his next stop - the wine cellar - to do a nightly inventory of the claret, whites, port and dozens of other bottles. But something held him in place. Like the weight of some invisible hand on his broad shoulder, holding him in contemplation.

He was resting the tops of his fingers on the edges of the lower cupboard, his wrists hanging down below them limply. He stared at the lock, noticed the rust around the edges along the wood. In all the cleaning he and the others of the house did, the scrubbing and picking microscopic dry muck out of every corner, they could never get everything. Especially rust. That was inevitable. Things aged. He was ageing.

He'd been seeing reminders of his years for the last few days, in the dates on the wine bottles he was asked to bring up, in eavesdropping on the footmen and finding out the newest recruit was a tender 22, and in looking into his perfectly polished mirror every morning. The same old face staring back, wizened and old. Was he wiser than he had been when he was 22? Carson couldn't say for sure. He could assume the authority of a wiser being in practice, but in his snatches of quiet meditation, usually in the evening, he saw the uncomfortable truth. He had missed out. He'd made mistakes.

It had never bothered him before, these minuscule confrontations with himself. They were easily brushed aside in favor of his daily routine and responsibilities. Recently, though, the searing truth of his regret was getting to him. And strangely, a growing part of him was glad to stop ignoring it. This part of him knew he could act. The mirror might show an old man, he would think, but I'm alive. I'm still alive.

"Penny for your thoughts, Mr Carson?"

The familiar voice startled him out of his reverie. He looked up and gave a short, curt smile. Mrs. Hughes. The woman who had been occupying his thoughts these last few days. It was only now that he was realising how much he thought of her. He had nearly lost her once, and even then taken for granted that she would be here till the end of her days. That cancer scare. He pushed the memory away.

"Oh it's nothing of any importance," he said, looking down at his black shoes and the tiled floor, then back up at her. He took a breath and straightened his back. "Finished for the night?"

"Just about," she answered. She took a step towards him, relaxing into the easy conversation of their responsibilities. "I've asked Kathleen to clean out the store cupboard since it's been a few weeks. I think it'll give us a chance to finally do a proper inventory of the new canned goods we've started getting in."

"I do wonder about those canned vegetables," Carson said.

"I know!" she said, raising her eyebrows. "Mr. Fenwick says they're just as fresh as any of the produce you'd get at the market, but I'll be the first to say they don't taste like it." She sighed. "Ah well. We'll give it a try anyway. It's good to be able to stock up."

"Nice to have things that don't go old," said Carson, looking at the floor. He let the statement linger.

"Yes," Mrs. Hughes replied politely. Then she cocked her head. "You don't like things getting old?" She smiled at him. It was a common encouraging expression she made, half in jest, half expectant for more details.

"Huh!" Carson said, not surprised she'd caught the double entendre. "Who does."

"No one, I suppose." She shrugged. She wouldn't get any more out of him on the subject. She rarely did. "Well, I suppose I'll head up to bed."

He nodded.

"Good night Mr. Carson." She turned and started to walk away.

_Say something for God's sake._ A rush of electricity hit Carson like bricks, a motivation unlike any he'd felt before. Was this him? Was it something else? Something was telling him to speak up. Now.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

She stopped and turned to face him.

"Yes?"

"I uh… are you feeling particularly tired at the moment?"

She looked surprised.

"Well, I …."

"Because I was wondering…"

She raised her eyebrows again, and turned her head.

".. Well it's just that I was thinking of taking a walk in the gardens. Full moon is out, so it's well lit, and quite warm. Thought I'd get some fresh air. Would you care to… join me?" He said the last two words, "join me," more quietly than the rest, as if under his breath. But by golly did she hear them.

She looked at him and thought for a moment. Then she answered.

"Well it's late, but I suppose some fresh air would be nice. I could do with a bit of air."

They stood there, awkwardly.

"Good!" said Carson. "Let's go out the back then."

"I've got a key," said Mrs. Hughes.

"Splendid."

They walked down the corridor, Carson first with Mrs. Hughes following behind. They had walked together countless times before. On the way to a town event with the household, around the house to discuss matters of service, and talked together in the gardens when there was a gathering. And nearly every night they sat and talked in either of their allotted sitting rooms, nursing small glasses of port or red wine before heading off to bed. But it was rare for them to go out of the house for the sole purpose of talking to one another, and it had never happened at night.

Carson needed to be out of the house to say what he needed to say. He needed to not have the burden of the walls, the notebooks, the keys, and the cleaning rags stacked around him. He wanted fresh air, sky and trees. The gentle breeze on his face and soft scent of roses. Things aged. He was ageing.

_But I'm still alive. _

He lifted the latch on the heavy wooden door and pushed it open, then ducked as he made his way out. He held the door open for Mrs. Hughes and she closed it behind her. The sky was heavy with stars, thousands of pinpricks of light splashed across the sky, framing a fluorescent moon. It was breathtaking. Most nights weren't this clear, certainly not in grey Yorkshire. The pulsing_ cheep_ of crickets filled the air around them, and was joined by the sound of crunching gravel as they walked along the path. They said nothing to one another for a while. They were comfortable enough in each other's company to feel they didn't need to fill the moments of silence between them. Fifteen years of working closely together, watching people die during a world war, firing people, arguments, a cancer scare, will do that to you. They walked about half a foot apart, Mrs Hughes holding her hands in front of her waist as she often did, her iron keys jangling rhythmically with each step. Carson kept his hands behind his back.

"It's lovely out here tonight," Mrs. Hughes said softly.

"Yes it is." Carson looked up at the sky. "Quite impressive."

Mrs. Hughes felt the compulsion to ask him again, about his thoughts. If he was alright. Most quiet and introverted people kept a wall around them. Mr. Carson had a fortress. She knew she had to be sensitive. She'd learned that much over all these years. Sometimes it was fine to pry. Other times it would get her nowhere. It was never that she would get him visibly upset him with her questions, but she frequently met dead ends. "Still waters run deep," her father used to say. That was in reference to her mother, who was like Carson in a way. Quiet, devoted to tradition, loyal. And an enigma. Her father had loved her mother, a serious woman. Mrs. Hughes never felt she had ever truly understood her mother, but she suspected her father had. She wanted to ask Carson about what was troubling him, and what had been troubling him for what seemed like the last few weeks. But she knew to say nothing. It was important to let him speak first.

_Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. _Their footsteps on the gravel gave tempo to the pulsing sounds of the garden around them - the crickets, a light wind, the evening song of a few birds.

Then, finally, Carson spoke again.

"I've been... a bit troubled recently."

Mrs. Hughes looked up at him, then down at the ground. "Oh?"

"Yes."

_Crunch, crunch, crunch._

"Do you know why?"

"I think I do. I am, essentially, bothered by the fact that I'm getting older. I suppose that's natural. I AM getting older."

"You're not the only one," she quipped.

He looked at her for the first time. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. But you never seem older to me."

She gave out a short laugh and rolled her eyes. "That's kind of you to say, but I know what I see when I look in the mirror each morning. Every year it all looks a little worse for wear."

"Don't say that."

"I know. I shouldn't. I'm grateful that I have my health. We've both got a lot to be grateful for."

"Yes. You're right."

"We're here in Downton. We've got good jobs, descent enough employers. The staff aren't always Grade A material but we do our best with what we've got."

"Indeed."

"And you and I make a good team."

"I can't deny that," said Carson.

Mrs Hughes felt some satisfaction at having livened Carson's mood over the prospect of getting old. That's one way that she knew she helped the staff: lift their spirits, remind them of what they had that was good in life. Sometimes she needed reminding too of course. But even then, she knew that something had been missing all this time. She wondered. Does Mr. Carson ever-? No, he couldn't. She couldn't bear to let herself contemplate the possibility, even for a moment. There was potential for great pain if she ever went there.

"I just wonder, how long this will all continue," he said.

"Working at Downton?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's hard to say. Perhaps another ten, maybe twenty years at most. At least for you and me."

"I can't imagine staying here for longer than another five years," said Carson.

Mrs. Hughes looked surprised. She half imagined he would take his dying breath in Downton, but now he seemed to suggest he wanted to leave.

"I'd have thought you'd want to be in Downton for longer than that," she said.

"I thought that for a long time too. Recently I've been thinking about it differently. But …"

"What?"

"Well this is the part that's difficult to say."

"Oh. Well. Take your time."

"No, no. I can say it. It's, uh… "

He paused. For a few seconds his mind went blank. What had he meant to say? Carson kicked himself. The farce of old age. Then it came back to him like a flash of light. The words he'd been churning over and over in his mind these past weeks.

"I've realized that I could, believe it or not, live without Downton Abbey. I could live without service and the salary and the family upstairs, and I could live without the liveries, the routine and even the great honour of being in service. But when I look ahead, to my getting older still, to leaving this place and moving on with life. Well. There is one thing that I cannot imagine living without." He paused.

"What's that?" Mrs. Hughes asked, looking up at him.

Carson stopped walking, and so did she. He looked down and saw the moonlight illuminate her face, casting away her wrinkles and the dark shading under her tired eyes, making her look 20 years younger, but no less beautiful than she always did.

"You."

That word. It punctuated the air around them. All those weeks of thinking, grappling, the years of ignoring his feelings, had finally been brought to a head with one, simple word. He looked into her eyes, sparkling in the light. They grew wide.

"What?" She looked startled, almost ashen. Her mouth fell open.

Carson's heart pounded.

"I know I'm old. Past my best years. I'm not much of anything, really -"

"Oh Mr. Carson, don't," she said.

"No, it's true. I've made mistakes in my life. I've let it… pass me by." He looked down at her hands, still holding one another at her navel, and more tightly than ever. She lowered her eyes to his chest, saw him lift up one of his large hands to rest it on her hands, followed by the other. His touch felt electric, and warm. This was much more than just a friendly pat. She slid her hands into his own, accepting the gesture and grasping it back. She didn't have to say anything. She didn't know what to say.

He looked down at their hands, intertwined, holding each other fiercely. Could this mean…?

"I've never told you, how I felt," he said.

She couldn't bear to look into his face. She bit her lip, stunned by what she was hearing.

"But all these years, I've cared about you a great deal. More than anything else here at Downton. More than the work and the duties. I thought it was a partnership at first. But now I know it was more than that or even friendship, for me at least. Mrs. Hughes, you're the person I want to grow old with." He chuckled lightly to himself, and she looked up. They locked eyes. "I know I'm old already. But…" He whispered it again. "You're the person I want to grow old with. That's what I know now."

"Mr. Carson," she said, whispering back. "Oh, Mr. Carson." She looked down at his hands, large and strong, grasping her own. She rubbed her hand over his. All these years of civil relations, and now they seemed to hold each other so tightly, as if their fingers were making up for the drought of contact. "I've wanted that too. I didn't know how to say it."

She released a hand to wipe her eyes, and sniffed. "And there I was thinking you kept everything wrapped up so tightly inside. You're far better than me at saying what you feel."

"Do you feel the same way?" he asked, hopefully.

She smiled and sniffed again. "Well what do you think?"

He looked at her.

"Yes. I do. I…"

The sound of the crickets had all but disappeared. Even the moon seemed like it was just another distant star, struggling to reach them with its pinprick of light. They were far away, in another realm. He reached up and grazed her cheek with his fingers, pushed a stray hair back over her ear. She closed her eyes, letting the feeling wash over her like a dream. Carson leaned forward, his cheeks flush, his eyes slowly closing too. He was entering the dream with her. For a split second he was looking at the keyhole from the silverware cupboard again, except this time, the rust was slowly disappearing. No, now it was gone. It was polished clean, and beautiful.

He pressed his lips against hers and felt the air, the garden and the sky envelope them. There was nothing else around, only them. They stayed like that for a few moments, for what seemed like a lifetime. Then they both pulled away, slowly, opened their eyes and looked at one another. An older man looking at an older woman, yet suddenly decades younger.

"I love you," she whispered.

He kissed her again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

_EDIT: Thanks, all you lovely writers, for your feedback on Chapter 1! Means a lot to me. Hope you like Chapter 2 - (Spoiler: bit of a downer coming, but don't worry, it gets better, I promise!) _

They were still in a dream, held together by the sinews of hidden desire. Their second kiss lasted for longer than the first, spurring them to press into one another more strongly. They had let go of one another's hands, hers gradually resting on Carson's chest, and his now holding her shoulders. She loved the sensation of his strong fingers grasping her like that. Finally they parted, and each took a breath.

The sound of the evening crickets returned, and they awoke.

Then Carson saw it. Something had flashed across her weary eyes. The look in them had changed from a moment before, and it made him feel uneasy. He had a dark suspicion that deep within her mind she was calculating, processing. Carson wondered what conclusions she was making about their kiss, and his stark admission that he couldn't imagine life without her. He had never made himself so vulnerable. Just now Mrs. Hughes had said she 'loved' him. His heart had soared at the words, into another realm.

But now he was worried. Her furrowed brow suggested things had inexplicably changed course. He became aware that he was still holding her shoulders, and felt a familiar pang of anxiety. Should he remove them? Did that make her feel uncomfortable?

She was staring ahead at her hands on his chest, a glazed expression on her face. He shifted his fingers to get a different grip on her arms. To his dismay he felt her stiffen, and put pressure on his chest, as if pushing him away. In the moonlight he could see her shake her head ever so slightly. His heart sank.

He bowed his head and gave her shoulders a short, strong squeeze, before releasing them. He let his hands drop to his sides. Now there was a two-inch gap between her own fingers and his chest. She let them hover there for a moment, then let them drop too. He felt embarrassed, confused.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No," she replied. "Don't be." She looked around at the gravel path below, wildly searching for the right thing to say. She sniffed again and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her nose. "This was…"

"This was a mistake."

"No!" Mrs. Hughes looked up. Carson was watching her for an answer, expectant. He seemed lost. In her newly detached state she had an inkling of what she was about to do - hurt him terribly. But that was how things were with Elsie Hughes. That was the bed she had made for herself thirty years before, and now she had to lie in it. She wondered why she had let him kiss her in the first place. Why had she agreed to come out to the garden in the night, and let herself get carried away? Because I love him, she thought.

_But he can't know. He can never, ever know_.

She folded her arms in front of her, the cliched defence, quickly raised a hand to her mouth, tightened her lips, bit her knuckle. What to say? Her mind was a storm of confusion, and beneath all that an old poison was slowly creeping back into her heart: guilt.

_No._

She turned around so that her back was to him and took a step into the cool grass. She didn't want him to see her face. She looked up at the full, bright moon. In her mind she could see him still standing there, his normally broad shoulders sagging, his face broken. She felt his eyes on her. She couldn't-

"Mrs. Hughes." The old, familiar baritone was soft and inquisitive.

She hated herself for having to resist it, and shut her eyes. "Yes." Her voice was tiny.

"I can understand if this is all too much for you. I should not have said… what I said. It was improper."

Mrs. Hughes watched the dark oak trees at the edge of the garden swaying in the breeze, the world of nature so separate and simple compared to man's complexities. It was not improper at all. It was all she had ever wanted, but it was also a dream she could never have. She should have remembered that from the beginning. The thought fortified her.

"I don't want you to think that I don't care about you, Mr. Carson," she said, turning and speaking to the side.

"Right."

"Because I do. Very much."

Carson felt his face go hot. "But you spoke of 'love,' earlier."

"I did."

"So that wasn't true. You didn't mean that."

"No, I did. It's just-"

"Then I don't understand. Did I do something wrong?"

Mrs. Hughes felt her stomach churn at the question, and took a breath. She had to make her decision. No matter what he felt or thought of her, she wasn't worthy of his love. If he ever knew her secret, the one she saw every day within the very corridors of Downtown, he would never be able to look at her. She'd be ruined. She gathered her strength again.

"I think we need to ask ourselves why neither of us has said anything after all these years of working together. What stopped me from saying anything about how I felt to you? Maybe…"

She turned and looked at him, and her heart wanted to break. He looked years older. She walked up to him and took his hand in hers. It was a friendly gesture now, almost commiserative. "Maybe we kept ourselves apart because that was for the best, for both of us, and for the household."

He shook his head, fighting against her words. He had thought about this, long and hard. And he knew she felt the same way. Something was wrong here. "No. No I don't think that's true."

"Mr. Carson. I can't" she said, more strongly now. "I can't do this." She put her hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, then turned away. She walked, briskly, back along the gravel pathway, leaving him standing there.

In a few minutes she was back at the wooden door. She stopped for a moment, breathing hard, watching the breath turn into vapor in the cold air. She rested her arm on the brickwork and thought of looking back, to see if she might still be able to make out his tiny figure standing in the shadows, at the edge of the garden. No, she couldn't bear to turn around. She pushed open the door and walked into the thick warmth of the house, passing by the servant's dinning room.

That's when she saw him, sitting alone at the table and reading the paper. The source of her guilt no more than a few feet away, as oblivious to the truth as Carson himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

Carson cracked opened his eyes and let his vision come into focus. The morning light cast a grey pall over his small bedroom. He stared at his old wooden dresser, bedecked with a small shaving brush, round mirror and ceramic bowl. They were humble knick knacks for a man who wore black tie through the day and was the backbone of an aristocratic household. But there was no point dwelling on it, he thought.

The memory of the night before stung him again. He'd escaped it in his dream. He couldn't retain the memory of it, as usual, but he was sure that Mrs. Hughes was in it again. Many nights he dreamed of walking with her hand in hand, or at least of some sort of vague closeness. There was never any real detail that he could remember, only the warmth of a deep companionship and commitment. The last time he had felt anything like that was when he was a boy, with his parents. There had been a few women after that, between his youth and his service at Downton, but none had possessed the depth of character as the woman he'd worked alongside for the better part of 15 years.

And now the hope he'd build up over all that time had fallen apart. He was falling apart. Even the dream felt pointless. He pushed himself up and sat on the side of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees. He hung his head loose, turned it a little and gave it a few minutes to clear up, make peace with the morning. He finally raised it to faced the mirror. His hair was askew, his eyes sagging. He looked older, somehow…

Never mind. A great squeak from the mattress springs erupted as he pushed down on the bed and stood up, then padded over to his wardrobe to pull out his liveries. It's a new day, he thought. Lots to do. He had a sunken feeling that he wouldn't find much joy in his work, and clung to the possibility he might be busier than usual.

Downstairs the morning bustle was kicking off. Mrs. Patmore and Daisy had started preparing the breakfast while other kitchen assistants were cleaning pots and pans, or quietly stoking fires in the bedrooms upstairs. Carson poked his head in the kitchen to check that all was in order.

Suddenly he turned and looked down the hallway; the sound of footsteps came from the other end. He straightened his back as a dark figure turned the corner. It was Miss O'Brien. She strode tightly, her hands at her sides and her lips almost permanently pursed. Without saying a word she passed by him and walked straight through to the dinning room. Typical insolence to not greet him, but Carson could hardly be bothered with it this morning. He sighed and pulled out the tiny key that lived in his waistcoat pocket, then set about opening the silverware cases.

Two hours later it was time for the servants' breakfast and the dining room was full. The staff quietly murmured to one another. Mr. Bates was reading a book, and his wife, Anna, was sipping from a cup of tea. She flashed a grin and chuckled at something one of the other maids said. Carson was about to walk in when he heard footsteps again, this time accompanied by a familiar clicking of keys. He stood still, his dulled nerves suddenly on edge. From the corner of his eye he saw a figure pull up beside him, and stop. He wanted to ignore her and walk straight into the dining room, but stayed rooted to the spot. He stole a side glance at Mrs. Hughes' profile. She looked like death. Her hair was done neatly, but her face was haggard, as if she'd been crying. Their eyes met. She gave him a wan smile. He nodded, and they walked into the room together.

The gentle murmuring was replaced by a loud scraping of chairs against all the floor as all the staff in the room stood to acknowledge Downton's butler and housekeeper.

"Morning," Carson said. His deep voice was even lower than usual at this early hour. He lightly flapped his hands downwards to tell everyone to sit down. He flopped into his seat at the head of the table, and Mrs Hughes sat to his right. Everyone tucked into their food, except the pair that had just entered. She picked up her spoon and poked at her porridge. He stared at his bowl.

"Not feeling very hungry are we this morning?" a voice sneered.

It was Thomas. Just weeks earlier he had been christened the new under-butler by Lord Grantham, meaning he still took orders from Carson but the hierarchical layer between them had been reduced to a sliver. Thomas was taking a cockier tone than usual as a result.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Mind your own breakfast," Mrs. Hughes snapped, before shoving a spoonful of porridge in her mouth. She detested the taste of it this morning, but she had to put on a good face. Mr. Carson on the other hand, seemed to be losing his talent for putting up a facade. She wished he could just pretend like he used to. She could certainly do it.

"I'm not particularly hungry, Thomas," he said.

"You mean Mr. Barrow. Don't forget I'm the under butler now Mr. Carson." The younger man leered at him. "Give respect where it's due."

Thomas then quickly ate his porridge and threw back the last dregs of his coffee in one gulp, a strand of his slicked back, black hair falling out of place for a moment then settling back. He all but slammed the cup down, gleefully taking advantage of Carson's unusual, glum state.

"Ah! Perfect way to start the day, wouldn't you say Mr. Carson?" When there was no answer, he gave Carson a set of mock, doe eyes.

The other staff were starting to take notice now, as Carson continued to stare at his untouched porridge. He finally looked up. "What-"

"Right, lads," Thomas called, ignoring Carson as he drummed his hands on the table and stood up. "We've got an early luncheon today so lets get the dining room ready upstairs." He rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation. The two footmen across the table rose form their seats and obediently followed him out of the room.

Mrs. Hughes' watched them leave, wide-eyed. She leaned over to Carson. "Shouldn't _you_ have asked them to do the dining room?" she asked in a hushed tone. "That's for you to organize."

"I suppose," he answered, not looking at her. "Thomas has got it taken care of. Or rather, Mr. Barrow has got it taken care of."

She gave a sideways glance. "I hate to say it but he wants your job, and he'll keep finding ways to undermine you."

"Yes. I know."

Mrs. Hughes hesitated. She cast her mind back to last night. Their walk in the moonlight, his stunning admission of love, and her terrible rebuff. It was pointless to say anything now, she thought. She put out a hand, wanting desperately to lay it on his, then took it away. She stood up and walked out.

Carson picked up a spoonful of the porridge. He looked at it and opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again. His will to eat was gone, and he slowly set the spoon back down into the bowl. Then he threw his napkin on the table in a heap, and left the room. Anna, Mr Bates and the other staff exchange glances with one another.

For the next few days Carson became increasingly withdrawn, almost lethargic in his work. Instead of polishing the silver with his usual vigour, he did it slowly and methodically. For a rare two nights in a row, he failed to carry out his usual inventory of the wine cellar. For all he knew, Thomas had gone back down and stolen a few more bottles of claret. He wouldn't know, and he didn't care. Every night he took a little longer to put away the last remnants of silverware, and lock them away in their cupboard. He would stare at that small key hole, and the rust that surrounded it. It's as though I live in that rust, he thought to himself. _I am that rust. _

Then strange bouts of clumsiness emerged. One evening while he was bringing a tray of sauces up to the dining room, he tripped halfway up and sent the tray and ceramic jugs clattering across the stairwell. The sauce had gone everywhere, and flecks of ceramic had flown dangerously in different directions. The family upstairs had heard the racket, and Carson had gone through the painful task of having to tell them what had happened.

Two evenings later and Lord Grantham was forced to yell at Carson to get his attention during dinner, while he stood against the wall with the other footmen. He had been lost in thought again.

Later that evening, Grantham took him aside. The sweet scent of Port was on Granthams breath as he moved in closer to his butler's face. "Carson you seem a bit out of sorts lately. Everything alright?"

"Yes of course," Carson had replied, dutifully. "Everything's fine. I may be a little, tired, but that is all."

Grantham gave him an odd look. The lives of his servants were another world entirely, barely seeming to impact his own. From time to time he took an interest, but Carson's affairs were inscrutable. And he seemed capable enough of dealing with… whatever it was.

"Jolly good," he said, his ruddy face breaking into a grin. Carson nodded and headed out.

Later that night, Carson sat on the edge of his bed again and let his mind wander. It had been two weeks since the walk outside with Mrs. Hughes. They had barely seen anything of each other in that time. They had skipped their nightly discussions in the parlour, instead talking only of practical matters in the hallway as they passed by. It gave him more time to think, at least. For a moment, he wondered about Mrs. Hughes, but he was getting tired of asking why she had suddenly changed her mind in the garden. What was she hiding? He started to resign himself to the conclusion that he might never know.


	4. Chapter 4

******Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

_Delving deep into some Elsie Hughes backstory here._

Mrs. Hughes took in the smell of wood as she climbed the narrow staircase, and felt the pile of bed sheets, cool and stiff in her hands. She had ordered them earlier in the week from Selfridges, white woollen sheets that one of the maids had finally starched for her yesterday. They were ready to enter their final resting home in the linen cupboard. She gazed down the long stretch of upstairs corridor, framing an endless red carpet.

"Guest room sheets," she had said to Mr. Carson earlier that evening, in his study. He was hunched over one of his inventory books, scribbling something in the dim light of his lamp. "I think we need to replace all the sheets and covers in the east-wing room. Even the crewelwork cover, with all that gold fringing." She rolled her eyes at the thought of such extravagance, and shook her head. "Bed bugs."

Carson looked up. "What?"

"I'm afraid so. It would explain why Sir Edward McKenzie was scratching so much at dinner the other night. I'll have to put in another order later."

He went back to his work.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Mm." He didn't look up. She took a step towards him, and let the door shut quietly behind her.

"I've been thinking about what happened, in the garden a while back. What we said to one another."

He stopped writing, then put the pen down.

"Well," he said, closing the book and looking about his desk. "That's all forgotten now. I don't think we need to talk about it anymore, and it was a silly mistake on my part."

Mrs. Hughes tightened her mouth. "You keep saying that, but it wasn't." She placed a knuckle on the edge his desk, and looked down at the floor. "I don't think any less of you at all for it. Quite the opposite."

He finally looked up, and couldn't help seeing the discomfort in her face.

"I just…" she said, trailing off. She tried again. "I'm not the person you think I am. You see that's the trouble."

"We all have our foibles," he said.

She gave short, unhappy laugh. "Not like mine." She looked at him. "You're a good man, Mr. Carson. You've proven that to everyone here. You're upright, honest. You've raised the dignity of this house. I'm afraid I can't say the same for myself."

"You're speaking nonsense," he said. "You're far better than-"

"No, you don't understand," she said slowly.

"Then enlighten me. Please." He leaned back and folded his hands on his belly, narrowing his eyes.

How could she ever tell him, knowing the standards he held for himself and all of Downton. She had heard the things he'd said about the other staff, when they made mistakes. The way he admonished Branson, called Thomas' proclivities "foul" or banned anyone from ever speaking to Ethel.

Wretched Ethel and her frighteningly familiar mistake.

"I don't know that I ever can, Mr. Carson," she said softly. "All I know for sure is that I don't deserve you."

Carson's face softened for a moment. There was some unhealthy chaos in her heart, perhaps worse than his own.

"I know that all of this is troubling you," she added, "and I just… don't want you to think any less of yourself. Please. Don't…"

"But I love you," he said learning forward, the wall around his heart gone again for a fleeting moment. "Don't you see?"

She looked back up at him, not saying anything. Carson's face had been hardened by age, but it masked a deep tenderness. She could hardly believe he was telling her this all over again.

The sound of knocking interrupted the silence, and they straightened.

"Come in," Carson said.

Mrs. Patmore's round head emerged from behind the door. "That oven is acting up again, Mr. Carson and - oh. Am I interrupting something?"

"No, not at all," Mrs. Hughes said turning around and twisting her mouth into a smile. She put a hand to her throat. "I was just leaving." She ducked past Mrs. Patmore and into the corridor. Mrs. Patmore raised her eyebrows and looked at Mr. Carson, but the butler's face said nothing.

"So," he said. "Our worn-out oven needs replacing, does it?"

"Yes," Mrs. Patmore replied. "Precisely!"

Her words echoed down the hall after Mrs. Hughes, and now again as she followed the stretch of red carpet upstairs to the linen cupboard. She opened the wooden door and reached in with both hands to slide out the stack of old sheets, setting them on the floor and replacing them with the newly starched set. Two sets, identical in size, a vast gulf in age and service. She set the old stack on the floor and began to swing the door shut when she heard a noise. Hushed voices.

She craned her neck and caught snatches of words, coming from the narrow stairwell.

"…. won't last much longer."

"… do it properly… Lordship might think… vendetta…. got a reputation…."

"I'm almost thirty. It's about time I …"

It was Miss O'Brien and Thomas.

Mrs. Hughes scooped up the stack of old linen and held it tight to her chest, creeping alongside the wall. She looked around, then strained to hear the voices better.

"He smashed that set of sauce jugs, neglected the wine inventory, he's barely _awake_ during dinner," Thomas was saying. "He's way past it. The old coot's probably going senile."

"Then put it all together in a list and tell his Lordship," Miss Obrien whispered back. "Or better yet, I'll mention it to her Ladyship and drop a few hints. Get things started."

There was a short silence.

"Nice to have you on my side, for once."

"Huh." Mrs. O'Brien said. "'For once.' Shows how grateful you are for everything else."

"Don't you worry. Once old Carson's out, the next vacancy is housekeep-"

Mrs. Hughes took a step into the stairwell's entrance, startling the pair. She'd heard enough. Her face was a storm of anger.

O'Brien's looked up blankly, but Thomas instantly smiled.

"Hello, Mrs. Hughes," he said.

"I'm sure you two have better things to do than skulk about in stairwells," she snapped. "Thomas. I'd like to have a word."

"Certainly. And might I remind you it's Mr. Barrow now."

"No, your name is Thomas, and unless you are this household's _butler_ then that is what I will call you," she said. "And you can jolly well report that to Lord Grantham if you like."

Thomas and O'Brien shared a glance before going their separate ways, O'Brien heading upstairs and Thomas downstairs, followed by Mrs. Hughes.

"My sitting room," Mrs. Hughes said, watching the back of Thomas' head go up and down as he strode through the downstairs corridor.

This was going to be difficult. She had to say something to him, though. She had to protect Carson. She knew that Carson was going through a phase, and that he could snap out of it if he could just forget her. Bury everything. That was how you moved on.

A luminescent sheen flashed over Thomas' round, straight hair each time he passed by one of the wall lights. She eyed his broad shoulders, his swinging hands, the long legs.

It seemed almost impossible that the two of them could share the same blood.

An old memory came flooding back, of when the strong body in front of her, that of a tall young man, was tiny and fragile. It was a time before the soul inside him had turned bitter and black - when it was was small and innocent. But because of her neglect... The thought returned, like a whisper. It was her fault that he was this way.

She had been 24, a small, spindly thing, and just starting out in service. She remembered gazing up at a large townhouse in Edinburgh, still giddy with the excitement she had shared with her sister about finally leaving their farm in Argyll for a job in a big city. "Imagine the opportunities," her sister had said. Her sister had been happy to stay a farm girl, but Elsie wanted more. A relationship with a local, young farmer had also come to an abrupt end, and she needed to get away.

The house was tall and thin, at the top of a hill of grand, terraced building inhabited mostly by wealthy merchants. This one's was an old bachelor named Sir John Iverson, or just Sir John. A large man with jet-black hair, he was notoriously unkind to the staff, exploding into a ferocious temper when things weren't pitch perfect. Servants were told to face the wall whenever he walked past.

"Like animals!" Elsie's sister had said in a letter after she first shared that detail. But Elsie didn't mind, so enamoured was she with the house's grandeur, the honour of a service job.

Sir John probably didn't know that Elsie existed in the first few months after she was hired. She was a kitchen maid, the lowest on the ladder and hardly ever in his presence.

And then it happened.

Early one morning during her third month at the house, the housekeeper asked Elsie to stoke the fire in the master bedroom. The maid who usually did it had left, inexplicably. That morning Elsie knelt quietly in front of the hearth and was poking the small flames when she looked up to find Sir John standing over her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I'm sorry, sir." She fumbled for her basket, silently kicking herself for waking him so early. She noticed that he was still very close, and that his robe was open. Its long, cloth belt hung down on either side. It made her uneasy. She started to get up - and felt a weight on her shoulder. His hand. Then the other was cupping her cheek. Elsie's shoulders turned rigid; the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

"No need to worry," a grizzled voice above her said.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed. "I'll go now." She made a move again to leave but the force on her shoulder became stronger.

He cocked his head at her. "Stand," he commanded, pulling her up. "Let me get a good look at you."

She did as she was told and stood there, meekly. She suddenly wished more than anything to leave this room, this house.

He reached out again and grazed her cheek, and she turned away.

"Now, now," he said. He slid his hand behind her neck and yanked it towards him, pressing his mouth against hers, greedily. Her eyes were wide, her hands flailing. But she was silent.

When he pulled away his wrinkled face was flush, and his mouth open.

"This way," he said, pulling her by the neck towards his unmade bed.

Elsie shook her head, breathing hard. She stood still.

"You will come with me," Sir John said, bringing his face closer to hers, "Or you will pay. You are my staff and it is your duty." He pulled her harder this time and she grimaced, closed her eyes, and stumbled forwards. Suddenly his hands were all over her, tugging at her apron and then her dress. His hands were in places where she had never, in her naive upbringing, dreamt that a man could put them.

"Don't say a word," he hissed in her ear as he pressed on top of her. "Not a single. Word."

She didn't.

When she finally emerged from his room, her legs trembling, her body indescribably sore and her hair a mess, she had rushed downstairs to the kitchen.

"Where have you been?" the housekeeper asked as she rushed past.

"I… I…" was all Elsie could manage. A look of recognition instantly crossed the housekeeper's face. She opened her mouth to say something, then held back.

"Go on now," she said. "Don't loaf about." Elsie crept away. Later that night, her body still aching, she cried herself to sleep. Her pillow turned cold and wet like some fateful punishment.

"Make sure you do the fire again tomorrow," Sir John had said before she slipped out of the room.

Five more times it happened, over the course of that month. Each time she would try to get to Sir John's room earlier, almost in darkness, and try as best she could to not to make a sound. But each time he would stand there, as if he'd been waiting for her. She always felt wretched afterwards. Sir John told her during their second session that she would be branded a "slut" if anyone ever found out, and reminded her each time afterwards.

She tried telling the housekeeper, asking if there was any way she could be relieved of the duty of starting Sir John's morning fire. But she was brushed off each time, as if the older woman had an inkling of what was going on, but didn't want to know the details. Each time the man had his way with her, she'd stare at a fixed spot in the high ceiling - an old spider's web that no one had ever managed to get to - and remember a quote her God-fearing father often told her. "You must be _in_ the world but not _of _the world," he'd said. She played the words over and over in her mind, like a mantra.

_In the world but not of the world, in the world but not of the world..._

She could never go back to the farm now. She was tarnished. Dirty.

At the end of that one month, Elsie got some joyous news: Sir John announced he was sailing away for an extended jaunt to one of the colonies for trading work. He kept a skeleton staff in the house, Elsie included. The days after he left were among the best of her life. The duties were simple, the anxieties ahead of each morning were gone. Things were so much better that she hardly noticed the changes to her body - first to her monthly cycle, then the nausea and light-headedness whenever she got up from cleaning the floor. Eventually she realized why.

"You're pregnant," the doctor in thick spectacles had told her in study. "About three months along. It's totally safe to announce it to family and friends now." She had looked at him aghast. "Or not."

She kept the pregnancy hidden for as long as possible, attributing her bulging belly to weight gain whenever anyone asked. But by the sixth month it was impossible to deny the truth. Everyone in the house knew.

"Try to keep out of sight when Sir John comes back," the housekeeper told her. "And God help you when that baby is born."

To her dismay, Sir John returned when she was nearly eight months along and still mostly working in the kitchen downstairs. As soon as arrived home, his face tanned and leathery from the African sun, he asked that the "dark-haired kitchen maid" be sent up the following morning to take care of the fireplace.

Elsie complied, and the next day at sunrise she found herself bending over her large belly to fiddle with the fireplace. When she sensed him standing behind her again, she stood without prompting, almost defiant. The swollen results of his past exploits were now in plain sight. Sir John stared at her, at first in amazement. Then his face turned to stone. He looked over at the light streaming through a crack in the curtains and pursed his lips, then muttered something.

"I'm sorry?"

"Get out," he said.

Elsie was stunned.

"But Sir John-"

"Get out!" he roared, startling her. She put her hand to her mouth.

"You're a tainted woman now and you absolutely cannot be associated with this house. You will leave at once."

She moved for the door, in a daze. "And come don't back here scrounging for money for that bastard child of yours." She shut the door behind her, his voice still ringing in her ears. She fought the tears that sprung to her eyes and went to pack her bags.

"Where will you go?" the grey-haired housekeeper asked as Elsie stood outside the front door, her suitcase in hand, wearing an overcoat that was now too small.

"I don't know," she answered. She waited on that doorstep, hoping for the slimmest chance that the older woman might know of someone, somewhere who could help her.

"Well." The housekeeper raised her eyebrows and reached for the door handle. "Good luck."

She shut the door.

Elsie stood there with no idea of what to do.

For several hours she walked through the cobbled streets of Edinburgh, around the busy roundabouts, up the steep hills, her mind churning. She thought of taking a train to Argyll, but the image of her parents seeing her like this horrified her. With the small amount of money she'd saved from working she stayed in a small inn above the Red Lion pub.

Very early one morning she walked past a flower market nearby, and noticed that in the half hour after it finished, a few loose stems of roses and carnations were left scattered across the ground. She gathered them up to make a vase in her room. Then she had an idea. The next day she visited the market again, wrapped up the dregs of its flowers in paper, and sold them to passersby on the street. She did it everyday and made just enough to cover her living expenses. She couldn't stand the thought of being reduced to begging. Her goal was to stay alive, have the baby, and then figure out what to do.

Finally the pangs of labor began late one night. She slipped quietly out of the inn and walked to the local hospital to give birth. The pain of childbirth was unlike any that she could have imagined, but the following afternoon it was over. A baby boy, and a head full of black hair. The nurse brought him over and she held him in her arms, exhausted. The baby looked at her and she stared back, numbly. She saw the sneering face of Sir John and shut her eyes. She wanted this boy to be healthy, and well reared, but she couldn't do that herself. Who would look after the baby while she worked? Worse, the knowledge that he was Sir John's son, and the guilt of her corruption had become a barrier to her own maternal instincts.

Later that week, when she was strong enough, she timidly asked one of the midwives for advice. It turned out she was one of many women in similar circumstances, and it so happened that the midwife also knew a middle-class couple who'd been coming to the hospital after struggling to conceive. She arranged a meeting, and the next day Elsie found herself in this couple's tastefully decorated sitting room. In one, dreamlike motion, she handed over her tiny infant. She felt a stab of regret, but swallowed the feeling. She had little choice now.

"If it's alright, I'd like to know how he gets on," she told them, before she had a chance to think. "He never has to know that I'm his mother."

The couple had looked at each other, unsure of how to answer. Eventually they agreed to send her two letters a year.

"What will you call him?" she had asked.

"Thomas," said the man. "After my father. Thomas Barrow." His wife nodded.

Elsie walked back out into a grey morning, overwhelmed, but ready to put her life back together and everything else behind her. Everything except the knowledge of the baby, little Thomas.

She found another job as a house maid, and was far more discerning about how she picked her employer. Her heart became a little harder from that day onwards, and the wonder she'd first had for aristocratic splendour had been replaced by a brutal skepticism. These people who thought so highly of themselves could behave like animals behind closed doors.

A few times a year, Elsie would walk past the the Barrows' house to catch glimpses of young Thomas. From what she could tell over time, he was a shy and cautious little boy. As he got older, he rarely came home with friends, skulking about the street like some lone wolf. He also looked increasingly like Sir John, which troubled her. One letter told her that he had left school and taken work in a factory. His father had lost his job, and the family needed money. Then they moved down south to York in search of employment.

Two years later, when Thomas would have been 15, the letters dropped in frequency to one a year. Then there were none at all. Elsie was forbidden to write back, so she went through the motions of her work as a house maid, and assumed they had simply forgotten her. But something dug at her. The sight of a young, dark-haired boy, walking alone down the street. After five more years of silence, she packed her bags and went to York in search of new employment, and the Barrow family. She found out about a vacancy for head housemaid at a grand house just outside the city, known as Downton Abbey. She applied, and got the job.

Knowing the Barrows' address, she visited the house twice and loitered outside to see if anyone would emerge. It always seemed empty. Eventually she wrote a letter, making it cryptic in case Thomas came across it himself. After three weeks she finally got a response from Mrs. Barrow. The handwriting was shaky, and said that her husband had died six years prior, leaving her almost destitute. She had gone into work as a shop assistant in central York, and Thomas was desperate for work too. "He isn't a shirker," she had written. Elsie's heart dropped. She had to do something.

Within a few months, Elsie - known to most as Mrs. Hughes now - had heard of an opening for a footman at Downton, and prompted Mrs. Barrow to send her son. When she first saw an older Thomas enter the house through the backdoor for his interview, her breath caught in her throat. He was the spitting image of Sir John. She had to look away. Carson was skeptical of Thomas at first, but Mrs. Hughes dropped as many subtle hints as she could to say that he was right for the job. He relented, and hired him.

That was seven years ago.

Since then, things had not worked out quite as she had hoped. Thomas was not the young man she had quietly thought he might become, but what could she do about it? She had followed him down to York, and now here she was, following him down this dimly-lit corridor. This man who had come into existence because an old merchant from Scotland couldn't control himself with young women, who had been denied a mother's first love as a tiny infant, and who had been forced to give up his schooling at a young age to support his parents. Mrs. Hughes hated the wicked, nasty character he had become. She was repelled by it everyday. But she knew why it was there. She knew why he had become a "troubled soul," as Mrs. Patmore called him. At heart, she could never hold any of it against him - because it was partly her fault.

They got to the door of her sitting room and he stood beside it. Mrs. Hughes opened the door and walked in. He followed behind.

"Take a seat, Thomas," she said. "There's something I'd like to tell you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

_(Things heat up a bit...)_

Thomas sat down on a straight-backed wooden chair in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, facing her. The sarcastic smirk he so-often wore was gone, replaced by a small frown. He didn't like being caught out.

She thought at first of standing above him, to help enhance her authority. Then she saw that lonely, little boy behind the mask, her old memories underlining how deeply troubled he was inside. She changed tack and took the seat across from him.

It was a constant struggle, reconciling innate concern for her secret offspring, with wanting to protect Mr. Carson. Sometimes it was all she could do to keep her anger from bubbling over when Thomas treated him so cruelly. She cared for them both, but her feelings for Carson were powerful, and the last two weeks it had killed her to push him away.

For now at least, she had to get Thomas off his back.

"I'll just come out and say it. I know that you've got designs for the position of butler for this house," she started.

"No," said Thomas. "I know that Mr. Carson is butler and I respect that."

"You and I both know that's not true, and lets-"

Thomas starting to talk again but she held up her hand, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes.

"Let's not pretend that I don't know that," she said slowly. "I know you better than you think."

"Pardon me for saying it but you don't know anything about me, Mrs. Hughes."

She didn't answer for a while.

"Right," she said, clearing the air. "You need to know something about Mr. Carson."

She leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her lap. A small pain in her shoulder had irritated her throughout the last stressful week, and leaning forward seemed to help. "Mr. Carson has been incredibly loyal to Downton, and to the Grantham family, for many years. He has gone above and beyond what it means to be a butler, making him well-regarded not only in our circles as staff but in those of the family upstairs."

"All right," said Thomas. "What's your point."

"My point is that you'll have very big shoes to fill, if and when you ever take his place. It won't be easy. The expectations set by the staff, and by the family, will be higher than you can imagine. You don't know the work Mr. Carson has to do behind the scenes, before you wake up and after you go to sleep. It's not just a fancy title."

"I understand that. But Mr. Carson is, pardon me again… he's old."

If only you knew, Mrs. Hughes thought, of the bold, almost boyish way Carson had opened up to her just two weeks before. He only seemed old now because of how she had reacted to him. She was the one that had acted like an old woman. _That's my doing_, she thought.

"He's going through a phase," she said. "That's all. You'll go through it too when you're older. Thomas, I'm asking you to please give him a wide berth these next few days. You'll have your chance to shine soon enough. But now is not the time. Don't take advantage of the fact that he's going through a… a rough patch. Can you do that?"

She held Thomas's eye, letting her face go a little softer than before. He recalled the time not long ago when she had found him in a dejected state outside the house, and he had confessed everything to her about his love for another man. The way she had listened patiently, her face bereft of judgement, as if she already knew about his troubles. That had struck him as odd. He didn't care much for Carson, but Mrs. Hughes had shown him kindness, and he was willing to repay her.

"All right," he said, nodding once. "I'll lay off him."

Mrs. Hughes returned the gesture. "Thank you," she whispered. She knew there was good in him, somewhere. She stood up. "I suppose we better be getting on. It's late."

"Yes." Thomas got up and brushed down his waistcoat. He turned to leave, then stopped. "You know Mrs. Hughes. It's good of you to look out for Mr. Carson like this."

His sincerity disarmed her for a moment.

"Well- it's nothing," she stammered, getting up.

"I sometimes wish I had someone like that, looking out for me." He gave another small nod, and left the room.

Mrs. Hughes watched the door close behind him, then sank back down into the hard chair. She leaned forward, reached for her shoulder, and sighed.

Over on another side of the corridor, Mr Carson was stepping away from one of the heating vents. The secret audible conduit that went straight to Mrs. Hughes' sitting room.

A light rapping at the door jolted Mrs. Hughes awake. She lifted her head and looked around. She was still in the chair. What time was it? The clock said 11.27 p.m. She'd been out for five minutes, but it felt like far longer. Her shoulder also felt unbearably stiff, like old moulding clay.

"Yes?"

The door creaked open. It was Mr. Carson, straight backed, his hand resting on the door knob.

"You're still awake." His rumbling voice filled the quiet room.

"Yes," she said, shaking her head. "Barely. I drifted off just now."

He looked at her.

"Well come in then," she said waving him in, her matronly Scottish brogue more apparent.

He side-stepped into the sitting room, and the door gave a light "click" behind him.

"I thought I saw Thomas leaving here a few moments ago," he said. He moved to stand in front of her and set a finger on the bookcase next to him.

"I invited him to chat after catching him and Miss O'Brien conspiring again in the stairwell. I've had enough of it, frankly."

"And you didn't want to speak to Miss O'Brien?"

She gave a contrite shrug. "I know Thomas is your domain," she said. "But Miss O'Brien is also another kettle of fish. I thought… maybe I could talk a bit of sense into Thomas."

"Did you?"

"I don't know." She raised her hands. "I hope so." She looked up at him tenderly. "Good day today?"

Carson sighed. "I can't complain."

"Well." She stood up slowly and put a hand to her right shoulder again. "I hope it was better than mine."

"Are you alright?"

"Oh I'm fine," she said flapping him away. "Just my back's been playing up. Well, my shoulder. Seems to have got worse since I started sitting down." She tried stretching it, twisting her body away from him and grimacing. "Ow."

Carson barely gave himself time to think, stepping forward as her back was turned and reaching out a hand. He placed it on her shoulder.

"Here?" he asked quietly.

She looked up, surprised. Thirty years ago the feeling of an unforeseen hand on her shoulder had evoked fear and repulsion. Sir John pulling her up, commanding her to stand.

_Let me get a good look at you._

An inkling of that came back now. But only for a moment. This was different. This was Carson, far more noble in stature as a servant, than any of the wealthy masters she had worked for; more honest, and strong. So very strong.

She felt his hand give her shoulder a squeeze, digging into the pain, attacking it like a bold panacea. She closed her eyes, her body still turned away from him, facing the west corner of the room. She could feel him standing close behind her now, his tall, broad frame complementing her smaller physique.

"Yes," she said.

He squeezed her shoulder again, a motion that was slow and powerful. She placed a hand on the corner of the chair to steady herself. The thought crossed her mind that this was beyond inappropriate inside the house, no matter what they might have said and done on the edge of the garden that night before. But it dissipated as she remembered the time. Nearly everyone in the house, at least the staff, were asleep. They were expected to be up early the next morning, and no one wanted to face a full day's work without getting a decent night's rest. The butler and housekeeper were, once again, as good as alone.

Carson stretched his thumb to press into a lower part of her shoulder, reaching a bigger knot in the muscle. It hurt her.

"Ah," she gasped, tensing up.

Carson pulled his hand away, startled. "Oh. Sorry."

"Oh no," said Mrs. Hughes, turning around for the first time to face him. "That's very good. I mean, it's very… helpful."

She turned around again, a silent signal that he could continue. The guilty thoughts, memories, warnings that were streaming through her head in that moment were vastly overwhelmed by a greater desire, from her heart and from her body, for him to continue.

Briefly he wondered if he should keep going. Then he acted, this time placing both of his large, solid hands onto her shoulders. He kneaded the one on the right again, slowly, methodically, and caressed the left more gently.

Mrs. Hughes felt a warmth erupt inside her, coming at first from the thumping heart in her chest, slipping down to her abdomen and then further below, awakening a carnal part of her that had been dormant for years. Her face became flush, her breath a little quicker.

Carson took a small step towards her, so that his belly touched the small of her back, and leaned his head in above hers. He slowly breathed in her scent, and found it intoxicating.

She thought of opening her eyes, but didn't. Everything was happening inside a bubble, another secret realm that they had created for themselves. The world around her, the sitting room with its dry wooden furniture and cheap paintings, was melting away. She felt the heat of his breath on the back of her neck, and let her head bow.

Carson slid a thumb up to probe the area under her middle scalp, the rare sliver of flesh that was visible above the high neck of her black dress. He eyed it and felt a pulse of desire, moved his face closer and, tenderly, kissed it.

Mrs. Hughes felt a shiver go through her body. She felt him find her bare neck again, and kiss it a second time. His head was down, nuzzling hers, his sturdy hands still working her shoulders like a baker handling dough. Her muscle pain was long forgotten now. There was just the heat of his presence, and the slow, unexpected rise of a new craving within her. She let her left hand float up, and move across her chest to the hand that was rhythmically kneading her, looking for his eager fingers and grasping them.

Little by little she turned around, her eyes still closed, her fingers slowly dovetailing into his. She pressed into him, discovering that his other hand was now resting on the small of her back, pulling her in. She put her other hand on his broad chest, just as she had done that other night. Except the thought of pushing him away was gone from her mind. She let her fingers rest there, lightly clawing at his black jacket, starched clean and smooth.

Finally she gave herself permission to open her eyes, lift her head, and gaze into his face. Carson's furrowed brow was undone, his eyes like portholes into an ocean of longing. She fought the voice inside of her.

_In the world but not of the world, in the world but not of the world. _

And those terrifying memories of the last time she had ever let herself get so physically close to a man, with Sir John. She smelled the striking man in front of her now, closing her eyes for a moment, wishing that she could live in this morning for all eternity.

He let go of her hand to slip his arm around her waist, and she mirrored him, so that they were now locked in a fierce embrace, her face nestled into the layers of uniform that covered his torso. He rested his chin on top of her head, then leaned back to took at her face.

She let out a slow, long sigh, and he rubbed her back in response. "How long can we stay like this?" she asked.

_Forever_, Carson thought, before remembering that a secret part of him longed for them to do far more than embrace.

"As long as we like," he said, peering down at her. "This is our time." He removed his arm and found the bottom of her chin, gently lifting it up towards him again. Her face no longer looked tired and old, but flush, almost glowing. He bowed his head to kiss her, then hesitated, the fear of another rebuff clawing at him.

But then a surprise. She stretched up. Their lips came together hard, and suddenly she had her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him into her, almost greedily.

In her mind's eye Mrs Hughes was blasting the 30-year-old stain of Sir John from her memory, defeating it. It was a memory she refused to bury anymore. She had dug it up, and with her passionate kiss declared that all the conclusions about her culpability, her shame, were a lie.

And now that she had started she found she almost couldn't stop herself. She was hungry for Carson, eager to please him and please herself. She had never kissed a man like this before, had never been versed in how it was done, but followed her instincts and found that the kiss caused a veritable storm in her nether regions, and in his.

She finally let go, breathing hard. He was staring down at her, mad with desire.

"Mr. Carson," she whispered. "I'm so sorry... I couldn't help it."

His face crumpled at the endearing declaration. "What?" He grazed her forehead with his finger. "There's no need to be sorry."

"Yes," she nodded, as if remembering. "I know." Her voice seemed almost hoarse.

"I do understand that, for reasons unknown, you are conflicted," he said. "About this."

_He must never ever, know. _

She pushed the thought away. He would have to know.

"I'm so afraid that I'll lose you," she said, looking away. "You told me that you couldn't imagine living without me. I'm the same. We've worked together all these years, never telling one another…"

Her voice drifted off.

"Whatever you need to get off your chest can wait," he said. "Please, Mrs. Hughes. For once, just let me enjoy holding you."

She smiled, grasping him again around his middle, and did exactly as he wished.


	6. Chapter 6

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

_(It's time to confront the truth.)_

Everything was silent for a few more moments, until Mrs. Hughes heard the faint sound of the ticking clock in her sitting room. Her head was still resting on Carson's chest and she revelled in the sensation of his breath lifting her slowly up and down. She'd caught the sound of his heart beat for a while, and then lost it again. There would be no foolish, running away this time. She would not let fear take hold of her.

"I'm ready to tell you," she said.

Carson was quiet.

Mrs. Hughes removed her arms and stepped away, looking around as if she were about to embark on some household task. Carson let his arms go slack and straightened, ready for whatever was to come. They were both calm, unhurried. There was no kiss on the forehead or continued holding of hands - no accessories to the now-two times they had surrendered to desire. It was as if they ran either hot or cold.

She suddenly seemed anxious, clasping her hands and rubbing them together, looking up at him and then away at the small, dark fireplace that she hardly ever lit in the summer months.

"Do you remember," she started, "that time a while back, when you admitted to having been a traveling showman? Before coming to Downton?"

Carson twisted his mouth slightly at the unpleasant memory. He cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Well," she said, fiddling with a crocheted doily on the table next to her. "That's almost... tame when I think about to what I've done." She folded her arms and looked around. "God, it almost sounds like I'm boasting!"

She looked back at him, quickly, then bit her lip and eyed the two chairs that were set against the wall. It would be better to not face him while saying this. She walked over and sat down in one of them, folding her hands in her lap.

Carson approached the other chair and sunk into it. A small table stood between them. He watched her gaze at the floor.

"It happened when I first went into service," she said. "I was young. I'd just got a job in a townhouse in Edinburgh. I remember leaving Argyll, thinking this would be the start of a better life."

She pronounced each word slowly and purposefully in her Scottish lilt, as if reciting a monologue.

"It was wonderful, to work in a big house after being on a farm. There was also more money in service, or so it seemed. I learned over time that the job wasn't everything I had expected. There were long hours, hard work. And then there was the owner of the house, a merchant named John Iverson. Sir John."

She closed her eyes at the memories that started to flood back. His puckered face, the open dressing gown.

_Make sure you do the fire again tomorrow._

She took a breath.

"He was not a good man," said Carson.

Mrs. Hughes forced a grateful smile. "No, he wasn't." She paused, then stood up and took several, slow steps towards to the corner where she and Carson had just stood together. She had her back to him again. This was going to be more difficult than she thought.

"He took advantage," she finally said. "Of me."

Carson felt his heart sink. He was not terribly surprised by her revelation, given all the buildup, but it disturbed him nonetheless.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Mrs. Hughes remained frozen to the spot. "Don't be. From what I gathered it happened to a lot of other women who worked in that household." She rolled her eyes. "And that housekeeper turned a blind eye. Didn't have an shred of sympathy."

Carson suddenly remembered Ethel, the maid who they had fired for consorting with an officer staying in the house, and the way Mrs. Hughes had secretly helped her afterwards. Had she felt an affinity?

"I should have known better I suppose. I should have left the house then, tried to find another job. But I couldn't. I was frightened. "

"You were young."

"Yes."

She wondered if she would manage to get to the real meat of her story, and decided she had to go on. She had to be brave.

"I didn't know what else I could do. Part of me didn't want to admit that it was happening. But it did happen. More than once. He kept asking that I be the one to light the fire in his bedroom. I would try to get there earlier each time, when it was still pitch black outside. But he still managed to wake up and... find me there."

The cogs in Carson's mind began turning, searching for an answer to her obvious discomfort. He wondered if there was a way he could help her banish the memory of Sir John. He briefly imagined pummelling the man.

He didn't consider that there could be more to the story.

"He went away for several months, to Africa for his work. That was good. It all stopped after that. But then-" She paused and steeled herself, "then I realized I was carrying a child."

Carson lifted his head and stared at Mrs. Hughes. She remained as still as a statue, facing the corner. Confused thoughts tumbled into his mind and he struggled to regain focus. It was silent in the room.

"Go on," he finally said.

"I continued working at the house, and when Sir John returned and found that I was pregnant, he fired me on the spot. I don't know what I was thinking, or why I thought I had a chance of staying there. But there I was on the streets of Edinburgh, eight months gone and nowhere to go."

Carson couldn't believe what he was hearing. Mrs. Hughes wasn't that sort of person. He knew it wasn't her fault, but this sort of predicament seemed inconceivable for her.

"I had a bit of money saved, so I was able to stay at an inn, and I sold flowers on the street that were left over from the local flower market. That helped me pay for food and shelter." She felt her face grow hot at the shameful image of an unwed, pregnant woman scraping for money, and tried not to imagine what Mr. Carson must have thought of it too.

"I had the baby," she said. "I wasn't sure what to do next. But then I found out from a midwife that a local couple had been unable to conceive. I suppose I was lucky. They wanted a baby boy, and I had one."

"So it was a boy," Carson said quietly.

Mrs. Hughes was startled that he'd noticed that detail. "Yes," she said. "And I could have left it at that. But for some reason I asked them to keep me informed of how he got on, and for some reason they agreed. And then as time went by, I went down to their house a few times and waited outside to see what he looked like."

An image came to her from when she had gone to see Thomas from across the road: a wee boy walking down the pavement with his mother, vigorously puffing air out of his cheeks on a windy day. "What are you doing, Thomas?" The woman had asked. "I'm blowing back the wind," he'd replied innocently, and had kept puffing out air. She remembered smiling at that, and being sure that this child would grow into a kind man. But he had not.

A well of emotion hit her out of nowhere at the thought of what the little boy had turned into - a man who was vicious and spiteful, yet deeply misunderstood. She pinched the flesh on her palm for a few moments to keep her emotions at bay.

"Where is he now?"

Carson had asked the question she had hoped he wouldn't. She'd hoped he would stop her and say that he didn't want to know any more. Because that was what Carson did. He built walls around his heart, each brick fortified by ignorance of details and history. He didn't ask questions or pry, because to do so was undignified and beyond the propriety of a butler. But this was a matter of such magnitude, one in which she had already stripped away a decades-old facade, that of course Carson had to ask.

Mrs. Hughes was quiet for a long time. The sound of the ticking of clock became almost thunderous.

"He's not far from here," she finally said, eyeing the floor.

"I see," said Carson. "So you know of him, and who he is, but he doesn't know you? He doesn't know that you're his mother?"

There was something strange about being described as "his mother," but she nodded because what Carson suggested was true.

"Well," Carson said, raising his eyebrows and frowning casually. He opened his hands and clapped them together, as if he were declaring the matter closed, perhaps not even that important.

Mrs. Hughes wondered, with some hope, if this was the end of the conversation. Perhaps she would be spared the decision of telling him the truth in its entirety. Perhaps she could save it for another day. Or another decade - even though part of her wanted to stop holding her secret, and saw value in bringing it into the light, if only to share the weight of it with someone else.

And then Carson asked a question that put all those vacillating thoughts to rest.

"Do you still see him?"

Mrs. Hughes finally turned around. Her eyes were wet, and she was grasping her fingers so tightly they had turned pale.

"Yes I do, Mr. Carson." She paused, and looked at the floor. "I see him almost every day. " She glanced back at him.

He looked confused. "You see him in your memories?"

"No," she said. "Here at Downton."

Carson's mouth dropped. He found himself unable to speak, his lips merely opening and closing. He shook his head slightly, then looked back her, furrowing his brow.

"Who-"

"It probably won't to be easy to accept," she said, stalling. A small, strange thought had struck her - that telling Carson might somehow put Thomas at risk. There was no logic behind the thought but it stirred her anyway. "Maybe it's best if we-"

"Who is it?" he asked more forcefully, getting up form his seat and fixing her with a stare.

She was searching the floor again, wide eyed, trying to think of anything else to say. "I just don't know if it's best for me to give the…"

"Mrs. Hughes," he said, lowering his voice and regaining his patience. He understood how he had to approach this. He sat back down on the chair. "I'm not going to look at you, if that's what you want. I promise. Tell me his name." He held up his hand and looked up quickly. "And don't worry. I'm not going to say anything to him, or anyone else." He gazed down at the floor again.

She faced the ceiling and then closed her eyes. She formed the words in her mouth and tried to utter them, but nothing came out.

She took a breath.

"It's Thomas."

Carson's blood ran cold. Then he broke his promise, and looked up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

Mrs. Hughes was breathing in and out. Waiting. Then the straight line of Carson's mouth twisted upwards, half amused.

"This is some sort of farce," he said. There was pause. She was frowning.

His smile disappeared as Carson realized this wasn't a joke, and a jolt of nausea hit him. The reality of everything she had described, her story of assault, bearing a child, that child being Thomas Barrow, was hitting him waves.

"That's impossible," he said. "It can't be."

Mrs. Hughes was silent.

"He's nothing like you. He's… the antithesis of you. That man has a despicable character. You're telling me the man who has connived behind our backs to better his position, even stolen from the house," he gestured upstairs, "is your _son_?"

The word seemed to echo through the tiny sitting room. Mrs. Hughes closed her eyes. She nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I've told no one about this," she said hoarsely. "No one knows. Only me and Mrs. Barrow, the woman who adopted him. She still lives in York."

"Even _he_ doesn't know?"

She shook her head. And how could she ever tell him? Working in service was so all-consuming that it became life itself. The scullery maids and footmen, the cooks and the butler, they all passed by one another everyday, exchanged looks and greetings, sometimes a little more. But there was rarely any time for people to stop and talk of deeper things. It was always a matter of waiting till the family upstairs went to bed, and by then everyone was so desperately tired it was all they could do to sing a small song or read a book before nodding off. Was it any wonder it had taken this long for the two of them to admit their feelings for one another?

Her shoulders were slumped, almost defeated. She'd given life to someone, and for that a large part of her felt strangely numb. Burying it had only been half the answer. She had tried to move on, but she could never escape a truth that forever stared her in the face.

"I know he's a troubled man," she said. "And that's what makes it so hard. Knowing why he is the way he is. That he had a terrible father. That I should have kept him. I ask myself each day if I was right to give him up. How things might have been different."

Mrs. Hughes half admired Ethel's maternal stubbornness - the way she had refused to give away her son even to his wealthy grandparents. She'd fallen into prostitution of course, and eventually had to give him away as a small boy. But at least she'd tried, and he'd had those first few years with her. If she'd had those first few years with Thomas, might he-?

The clock chimed. It was midnight.

"It's late," Carson said.

Mrs. Hughes cut a lonely figure as she stood there by the desk, and a deeper part of him wanted to forget the exchange of words in the past half hour and and wrap his arms around her, let her bury her tears in his neck, tell her it was all right. But he was overpowered by repulsion at Thomas, unable to reconcile the idea that someone so foul could come from someone so dear.

"We've got guests coming tomorrow for the garden party," he heard Mrs. Hughes say. "Early start."

"Mm," he replied, standing up. "I need to think about all this."

She retained a dignified stance, and gave a curt nod.

Carson thought once more about taking her shoulder, easing some of the pain. But the thought brought with it a strange aftertaste of betrayal. He needed to figure this out.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good night."

He slipped out of the door, leaving Mrs. Hughes to stand in the room alone.

Her lip wavered, and she covered it with a handkerchief.

###

It was the following day. Lunch had just finished and the scullery maids were hard at work scrubbing copper pots and pans in the sink, while the footmen and maids carefully cleaned the Grantham family's fine China. Thomas glided through the downstairs corridor, past the kitchen where Mrs. Patmore and Daisy were crouched in front of the oven.

He poked his head in the room. "What's going on?"

"What does it look like?" Mrs. Patmore said, craning her neck to get a better look inside. "It's blocked up again. I don't know how they expect me to roast that turkey tonight."

"You could always boil it," he smirked.

"Get on with you!" She waved him away.

Thomas climbed upstairs and picked up a tray of brandy along the way, then walked into a lavish drawing room. One of that day's guests, Sir James Faversham, was sitting on the couch and smoking a cigarette. Thomas lowered the tray and the man took it, nodding in his direction.

Thomas put the tray under his arm and headed into another room. Someone was standing in front of the window, looking outside. It was Mrs. Hughes. He followed her gaze and saw baby Sybil out in the garden, tumbling over a ball and laughing. Mrs. Hughes wore a sad smile.

"Not a care in the world when you're that young," he said, sidling up next to her.

"Oh. Hello, Thomas." She glanced at him and then squinted out the window again. "Yes."

"You ever thought about having children?"

She suddenly looked down, surprised.

"Perhaps… Doesn't everyone?"

"They say they're more work that it's worth," he muttered.

"Oh I wouldn't say that."

"Well." Thomas started walking off to his next stop. "It's not like we're any the wiser."

His footsteps faded away.

"Thomas…"

He halted and swivelled around in one graceful movement. Mrs. Hughes pulled her hands together, opened her mouth to talk. Then she smiled.

"Never mind. It's nothing. Go on."

He nodded and walked towards the front of the house. She remembered the tiny feet, the small head of black hair, the extraordinary sensation of holding a squirming parcel of life in her arms 30 years ago. What could she possibly offer him now beyond quietly hoping to guide him towards better decisions? Could she even do that? She wondered if it was time to move on from those ambitions. If Thomas were to transfer to another house, she wondered if she could follow him again.

"Everything all right?" There was no mistaking the rumble of that voice. She turned around to face him, clasped her hands together and straightened.

"Me? Oh I'm fine."

Carson nodded and looked out the window with her. Baby Sybil was trying to pick up the ball to throw it at her nanny, in vain. It fell about a foot in front of her. The nanny smiled and clapped encouragingly before picking up the ball to give it to her again. Carson noticed the faraway look in the eyes of the woman next to him, tortured by a lifelong secret.

"Mrs. Hughes, about last night." He bowed and shifted his feet. "And the way I reacted…"

"Oh never you mind," she said, glancing at him momentarily before gazing at the scene outside again. "It's not as if I expected you to brush it off as nothing."

"You've carried a heavy load."

"We've all got our secrets," she said. She turned and looked over at Thomas who was talking to a footman by the front door. "It just so happens that I see mine everyday."

"Will you ever tell him?"

Thomas was pointing down to the other side of the hall and gesturing with his hands. The other footman stood to attention and replied in single-word answers.

"I don't know," she replied. "He must know he was adopted since he looks nothing like his parents. But I don't know if there'll ever be a good moment for me to talk. Or even what the point would be."

What purpose indeed, he wondered. Carson couldn't think of one for the time being.

He nodded. Then he turned to her, slowly, and took her hand. She felt a heat rising in her again.

"I'm glad you told me," he said.

"Are you? I can't imagine it was easy to hear."

"No, it wasn't. But much as I find Thomas to be an abject character, I know the weight of a secret is hard for one person to bear. I'm glad to bear it with you."

She looked up and him and nodded, pressing her lips together and squeezing his hand back in gratitude. Then she slowly pulled her hand away and looked around.

"You should go on," she whispered. "People will wonder if they see us standing together like this."

Carson stood and thought for a moment.

"I don't know that I care."

The corners of her mouth turn up for the first time. "That's awfully bold of you Mr. Carson."

"Well." He gave her a defensive look. "Maybe I don't." Carson looked around and leaned into her neck, whispering, "Believe it or not, I'm full of surprises." He patted her rear, and walked away.

Mrs. Hughes' mouth dropped open as she watched him saunter across the hall.

"Come along Mrs. Hughes," his voice echoed back. "We'll be needed at the front soon."

###

The deep stretch of back garden was abuzz with activity. The Grantham family were entertaining guests and three of the house's footmen were milling between them with trays of canapés and champagne. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes stood at the top of the slope of land, surveying it all side by side. The preparations were done, the system they had organized for that day running smoothly. They had a few minutes now to simply take stock and keep an eye on everything.

One of the servants separated form the throng. It was Thomas, carrying another empty tray and heading back to the house to get more canapés from the kitchen. He nodded at them as he went past. Carson turned as he walked up towards the house, looking at him now with different eyes.

Mrs. Hughes felt lighter, her chin a little higher. Carson turned back and sniffed the air. She looked up at him with a shy smile and looked away. Suddenly she felt his hand on her back. She faced him again, surprised, and started scouring the landscape in front of them to see if anyone could see his unusual display of affection.

One of the maids walked past them from behind, and headed down towards the rest of the party with a tray of food. There was no denying she had seen Carson's hand on her back.

"I told you, Mrs. Hughes," Carson said calmly. "I don't care."

She let her mind wander back to their embrace the night before, the hold of his powerful frame, their kiss and the exquisite sensation that followed, like some nourishing feast for her parched mouth. She thought about where they might go from here, if they would let others know about their feelings for one another. Marriage, perhaps; a cottage on the farm; the sharing of a bed. She felt her heart pulse a little faster and tried to regain focus. The future unnerved her, but the more she explored the idea the more it felt… right. No matter her past, or her hidden connection to Thomas. This had always been right. She only had to choose it.

She leaned into him and lowered her voice. "Well if that's how you feel, perhaps you ought to call me by something other than Mrs. Hughes." She looked up. "Like my first name?"

Carson gave her waist a squeeze. Then his eyes widened. For a horrifying moment he couldn't remember it. He knew her first name began with an E… He stared at her, commanding every brain cell to attention, reaching for the memory of her hand-written full name on an envelope, that symbol of a more intimate relationship passing right in front of his eyes. Her name…

Then his face lit up, and softened.

"Elsie."

She grinned. "That's it." She reached for his other hand and took it, stroking the knuckles with her thumb, inspecting the creases on his palm, and the bareness of fingers that had never worn a ring. Perhaps that would change.

_One day_, she thought. _One day_.

"Charles," she said softly to his hand.

His heart hammered in his chest at the sound of his name; the feeling was almost as if they had stepped through a door into a different life in that moment. They looked at one another, straight faced and earnest, enjoying the new ability to stare and explore without unease. It would take time to get used to after more than a decade of formality, of little beyond their dedication to service.

"We shall take it one day at a time," he said.

She nodded, and they were silent for a while.

They gentle breeze danced around them, carrying the scent of summer and the quiet, faraway chirping of birds.

At first, the high pitched voice seemed to just be part of those summer sounds. But then it got closer, and it started to sound like a person - a woman.

"Hughes…. Carson…"

Elisie turned to look, separating herself from the man next to her.

It was Daisy, running towards them and red-faced.

"Mrs. Hughes!" she was yelling.

Carson darted around. "What-"

In seconds Daisy's pounding footsteps had reached them and she was doubled over, panting for breath.

"Daisy what on Earth are you doing out here?" Elsie said. "What's happened?"

"Mr Carson, Mrs. Hughes we've got to do something," she said, turning up between breaths, her hands still on her knees.

"Well spit it out, girl!" Carson said.

She straightened up. "Fire! There's a fire in the house!"

She pointed back to the giant building that flanked them and the two whirled around again. They finally understood. Smoke was billowing out of the back door, along with Mrs. Patmore and a stream of kitchen staff.

"That blasted oven!" Carson shouted. "Daisy, run down and tell the others." She bolted down the slope and he thanked God most of the house's inhabitants were out of the house.

Charles and Elsie hurried to the back door, finding Mrs. Patmore and seven maids standing around and coughing.

"My God," Elsie said. She started counting them all, shifting quickly into emergency mode. She patted Mrs. Patmore's arm. "Are you all right? Are all the kitchen staff here?"

"Yes I'm fine, everyone from the kitchen's here. We all made a run for it when we saw the smoke."

Elsie and Charles quickly scanned the other maids and servants standing around in the grounds, many of them bent over or scrubbing the smoke out of their eyes. It looked thankfully as though everyone was accounted for. And all the footmen were accounted for because they were serving at the garden party. Except-

Elsie's stomach turned.

"Where's Thomas?" She looked around, frantically this time.

"He came back in to get more food," said Mrs. Patmore. "I don't know where he went. I thought he came back out."

"We didn't see him come back," Charles said.

"Thomas!" Elsie called into back corridor. There was no answer. Just an endless stream of black smoke.

"He's not here," said one of the other servants, looking around.

"I'm going to get him," Elsie said.

"No you're not." Charles grabbed her by the arm.

She shot him a mad look. "We can't just leave him in there!"

He turned back to the garden party, exasperated, and waved to the others to hurry over.

"James! Alfred!" he called. The other footmen were finally starting to look to the house with dazed expressions. A couple of men had started jogging over, but it would be at least another minute, possibly two, for the footmen and others who could help to reach the building.

Carson felt her trying to pull out of his grasp. "Mrs. Hughes. Wait until the other footmen get here. They can- Over here!" he waved to Jimmy again. "They can go in through the side door, and I'll go with them."

Elsie's mind was racing. She knew that Thomas was inside, trapped somewhere. An almost animalistic instinct overpowered all rational thought. She wasn't Mrs. Hughes anymore, she wasn't even Elsie. She was his mother.

As the thought exploded in her mind she yanked away from Charles' grip. Suddenly she was free. She stared at him for a split second, almost wild eyed, then turned and darted inside. The servants gasped.

Charles looked on, stunned. "Confound it!"

He took a deep breath ran in after her, disappearing into the thick, black smoke.

###

_(I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! All reviews are welcome. One more chapter to go!) _


	8. Chapter 8

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

_(Had to put this into more than one chapter, so there will be more after this…) _

Charles Carson stumbled through the never-ending smoke. This was a corridor he had spent years gliding down with dignified ease, but today he was reduced to a blundering mess.

"Mrs. Hughes!" he cried through the darkness. No answer. "Mrs. Hughes! Thomas! Ah..." He coughed, doubling over and balancing against the wall. It was impossible to see anything in the corridor but he generally knew where he was: a few feet away from the kitchen. He coughed again and felt his way along the hall, then found the doorway to the kitchen with his hands.

"Mrs. Hughes!" More coughing. He pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth, then ducked and crept inside. The smoke was thinner the closer he kept to the ground. He set eyes on the damnable oven, and stopped.

It was open, and clear.

He strained to look again. Not a wisp of smoke was coming from the problematic contraption. Charles was confused. How could there be a fire? He looked around. It had to be coming from another room.

Then the thought of her struck him and he pounded the table next to him and roared in frustration. "Elsie!"

He ducked again and moved to leave the kitchen. He hurried out of the doorway and deeper into the smoke, holding his arm in front of his face and squinting as he went.

_It's no use, _he thought_. I can't see a damn thing._

He closed his eyes, and kept walking, patting the walls of the corridor as he went. Till now he'd been sure of where he was in the network of stone passages, but now he wasn't so sure. He took in a horrible breath of black smoke, bigger than intended, and choked. He doubled over again and spat, feeling wretched at an act so undignified.

_Confound that woman! _he thought. Stubborn, Scottish, straight-laced… He stopped and tried to breathe again , the thought of her returning to him like the welcoming, bright beam of a lighthouse. He saw her standing in front of him, almost regal, holding an iron key and motioning to him. She held her arm aloft, her gaze strong and compassionate. She was saying something to him, mouthing words he couldn't make out. She tilted her head and spoke again, soundlessly.

"I can't… I can't hear you, Mrs. Hughes."

Charles had stopped walking and leaned against the wall. Then he was sliding, slowly against its cool surface till he came to a stop and sat against it, his hands flat against the cool floor. His squeezed his eyes shut and felt his face glowing in sweat. He half-heartedly put the handkerchief to his mouth again, then let it fall away.

"Mrs. Hughes…"

He creased his brow. He thought he'd finally heard it, whatever it was she was saying. He tried to see the image of her again, standing there with the key. He remembered the key hole he would stare at every night when he was finishing his last duties. The one that opened up the silverware cupboard. How he would stare at it and notice the rust around the edges and how it would remind him that his time was running out. That he was old. He strained his mind again to see her standing in front of him and talking.

Finally he was hearing her words clearly. Except they weren't gentle and loving, but urgent and commanding. Up. Getting up. And then a sharp, sudden pain on the side of his face.

"Get up Mr. Carson!"

He opened his eyes to slits. Everything was a blur, but he made out a dark figure in front of him. Then he felt the pain again. A slap.

His eyes shot open. Who on earth had the gall to slap him? He blinked and the figure came into focus. It was Elsie, her face etched deep with worry. It shifted quickly into indignation when she saw he was wide awake.

"Mr. Carson get up!" she demanded. She grasped his shoulders and was pulling him upwards, yanking him out of the dream and into the dark and horrible reality of their smoke filled corridor. He looked around and moved to stand up. He shook his head.

"Mrs. Hughes. Thank God you're alright," he said. Charles put his hand to the wall to steady himself and let his arm drape over Elsie's shoulder.

"We've got to get out of this smoke!" she cried. Her face was glowing with sweat and caked with a layer of soot from the smoke. "Now!"

Charles couldn't think. He was in a daze. Then he looked at her, and remembered the image he'd seen of her holding the key.

A key.

He suddenly knew exactly where they were. "You've got your keys, haven't you?" She looked at him. "The store cupboard," he continued. "It's right there."

They shuffled over to the door and she leaned him against the wall, fumbling to get the right key. She jammed it into the lock and turned it. They tumbled into a room filled with crates of vegetables and canned goods. The air was deliciously clean.

She shut the door behind her and the two of them burst into hacking coughs. After a minute it subsided, and they looked at one another, out of breath. The room was silent. Elsie looked harried. Then her knees buckled and she pulled at her hair, crying out. The piercing sound chilled him to the bone. She grasped for a shelf and leaned on it, suddenly overwhelmed.

She didn't find him, Charles thought.

"He's probably already outside," Charles said, resting a hand on her arm.

She stared at the floor and shook her head. "No. I know he's not outside. He's somewhere in here. I know it."

"All right," said Charles. "The other men will be at the house by now. They'll be trying to get in."

"I've got to find him." She reached for the door handle.

"No!" he bellowed. "I'm not letting you run off this time."

She stopped her hand. "All right."

"The fire. It's not coming from the oven. I don't know where it's started."

"I agree," said Elsie. "It's not coming from anywhere downstairs."

They looked at one another and recognition dawned on them both.

"The guest. Sir James. He was smoking a cigarette I saw him." Charles grabbed for the door handle, but Elsie put down a hand to stop him.

"We're going together." The thought crossed her mind that he might lock her in here for her own good.

"Yes," he said, nodding. "We'll try to head upstairs, use the east wing staircase. I think I know where he might have gone."

He moved for the door and Elsie stopped him once more. This time she gripped his arm and stared at him, her face a storm of emotion.

"Charles. Whatever happens outside of this room... know that I love you." She grasped him tighter, as if her statement was a matter of life and death. "Know that I love you more than words can say."

The creases in his face, lined with black soot, opened as he gazed back her and stroked her cheek. He kissed her forehead. "You can tell me that again when this is all over."

He turned the the door handle and they hurried out of the room.


	9. Chapter 9

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

Charles threw open the door and hunched down into the smoke, leading Elsie by the hand. They squinted their eyes to tiny slits and pressed handkerchiefs to their faces, but it was impossible to stop the fumes from seeping into their eyes and throats. Charles tore at his collar and ripped out his tie to give him room to breath. He knew that fires could move quickly, which meant they had seconds rather than minutes to find Thomas.

They hurried through the dark corridor, feeling their way. When they finally reached a familiar wooded post that signified a staircase, Charles bounded up the stairs, two at a time. Elsie hitched up her skirt and did the same. The door was open at the top and he walked through into even more smoke. Up here it was monstrously thick. Charles pulled her closer to the floor, so that if they'd got any lower they'd be crawling.

The openness of the upstairs hallway disoriented him. He kept them close to the wall to feel his way along again, fumbling with paintings and small oak tables. His nerves were shot at not knowing what was in front of them. A journey to the staircase which should have been 25 feet felt like 25 miles.

Elsie felt herself slipping out of Charles's sweaty hand and she tightened her grip. Her heart was pounding, the adrenalin rushing through her body as she stumbled with him through the hot and hostile smoke. They could barely make out objects in front of them, yet the carpet below them looked clean, like some strange, forgotten space in the unfolding disaster.

They started to feel a searing heat on their left flank . They couldn't see the flames through the smoke, but a fire was roaring in the drawing room where one of their guests had been smoking. It was engulfing the furniture, devouring every item in the room no matter how valuable. Charles stopped at the bottom of the stairs and they stood for a moment, coughing black muck out of their lungs.

"Thomas?" he called, looked up and releasing the handkerchief from his mouth. Elsie grabbed his arm as she listened. "Thomas!"

They heard a sound from up the stairs. Charles looked at her and they scrambled up.

"Thomas!" Elsie called. The smoke was thinner as they got to the top, but they probably had another minute before even the top floor was engulfed in as much smoke as the lower half. And it was still difficult to see more than three feet in front of them. By now their throats scratched from the soot and hot fumes. Elsie felt the inside of her mouth and nose burning, and a wave of nausea hit her.

"This way," said Charles, pulling her towards the nursery.

Within a moment they were there. The door was closed. Charles grabbed the handle and they burst in, looking around. The room was quiet and bare. No one was here.

Then a small voice - from back out in the hallway.

"Mr. Carson…"

The two spun around and rushed back into the smoke.

"Mr. Carson." It was Thomas's voice, but it sounded thin and weak.

"Thomas!" they both called back.

They followed the hallway down a little further until finally they saw him, slumped on the floor against the wall, with baby Sybil in his arms. The baby looked fine, and was squirming to get away, but Thomas' face was covered in sweat, his mouth ajar and his eyes glazed. When he saw Charles and Elsie he blinked slowly and lolled his head.

"I had to get her…" he said, before choking violently, "…can't breathe." Charles deduced that Thomas must have fought his way through the smoke to get Sybil, and had become disoriented by the fumes along the way. When he tried to leave the room he'd taken a fatally wrong turn and collapsed here.

Without a word Elsie scooped up the baby and Charles lifted Thomas from under the arm. The small group shuffled back to the staircase, stooping down as low as they could to avoid the smoke. Elsie let baby Sybil hang as far down as possible against her. Holding Sybil on her hip would have been easier, and Elsie knew she couldn't cover her own mouth with the handkerchief anymore, but she couldn't risk the baby breathing in the toxic fumes.

By the time they got to the bottom of the stairs the heat around them was almost unbearable. Sweat was pouring down Charles' face as he hoisted a slumped Thomas forward a few feet at a time. Everything around them was hot to the touch; even the air was scorching. And from behind them they could finally see a glowing light, and a roar of the monstrous fire that had engulfed the drawing room.

"Charles!" Elsie cried. She suddenly couldn't see him, feel him anywhere and the mewling baby she had hanging in front of her was getting heavier by the second. She felt dizzy.

"Take my hand!" he called back.

"I can't," she cried. Her hands were full, and she didn't want to risk dropping Sybil by only holding her with one arm.

He reached further and she felt his his solid grip wrap around her waist. It gave her a wave of energy and she pressed on with him across the hallway, Charles desperately clawing across the wall and furniture again to find the front door.

They were getting closer. But Elsie felt her grip on the baby slipping again.

"I can't hold her anymore," she called hoarsely. Charles swung around to try and face her through the smoke .

"Here!" he held out his bent arm and she handed him the baby. Charles swept Sybil up against his side and gripped the squirming child into place, like a giant rugby ball. He trudged on, hoisting Thomas again and grunting, each step an odyssey. Carrying two bodies on either side, he was beyond exhausted.

Finally he found the wooden pillars that framed the front door and pushed past them into the fresh, clean air. He gasped for breath and walked a few paces into the front yard, then set Thomas and baby Sybil down on either side of him, collapsing on his knees and taking in gulps of oxygen.

His mind was unravelled, disoriented. He squinted into the sun. People were running towards him - the nanny, Branson. Branson's hair was a mess, his face a wall of fear. He must have been looking everywhere for his daughter. Branson grabbed baby Sybil and clutched her to him, shutting his eyes. Alfred and Jimmy appeared from around the corner. To his right, Thomas was sitting on the gravel, leaning back on his hands with his eyes closed.

Then his heart almost stopped. With a sickening dread he looked around. She'd been right behind him.

"Mrs. Hughes!" he yelled, ignoring the painful scratching at his throat. He turned back at the house. Ignoring the exhaustion, the pain in his lungs, the throbbing migraine in his head, he scrambled back onto his feet, rushing madly for the front door. He didn't give himself time to consider that he was going back into the bowels of hell, and that he might die this time.

Then as he darted through the doorway again, he almost knocked her over. Elsie was coughing, and hunched over with her hand to the wall, a few feet from the exit. She had found her own way.

"Oh God," he cried, relieved and distressed at the state of her. He put his hand under her arm and led her out into the gravel yard. She stumbled with him, wheezing and coughing. She felt heavier in his arms with each step. He pulled her up and brought her next to Thomas where he could set her down on her knees, so that she could take in deep gulps of air just as he had.

He rubbed her back encouragingly. "Take the air in, my love." He waited for her gasps of air, but she was quiet. "Mrs. Hu-"

He put his hand to the back of her head, and it flopped onto his shoulder, startling him. Her eyes, normally bright with life, were rolling back.

"No…"

Charles felt her go limp in his arms, her knees still bent and her dark skirt splayed out in front of them both. He cradled her body and brought it tight into his chest, rubbing her arm and her soot-covered face.

"Mrs. Hughes! Wake up, Mrs. Hughes," he commanded. He took a breath. "It is your _duty_ to wake up!"

Her mouth and eyelids were still. A film of dark ash covered the insides of her nostrils.

From the corner of his eye he saw Thomas crawl over to him, his eyes wide at the sight of her.

"Is she-"

"I don't know!" Charles snapped. He turned his head and put his ear above her mouth. "She's breathing."

"I'll get Dr. Clarkson."

Carson turned but Thomas was already gone, running and half stumbling around the corner of the house to where the doctor had been mingling with the garden party.

"Stay with me, Elsie," he whispered, bringing her close to him again and rocking with her. "Stay with me now." He felt the sting of tears and fought them back. To weep would mean that he had lost control and to lose control might mean losing her. Charles took deep breaths and felt his shoulders shudder with a fear he couldn't push away. His arms strengthened around her. He was not going to lose her now.

The messy sound of gravel footsteps approached, growing louder.

"Carson!" It was Lord Grantham and Dr. Clarkson, with Thomas running behind. The doctor skidded next to him while Lord Grantham stopped and stared for a moment, before going to check on Branson and baby Sybil.

"Is she breathing?" Clarkson asked.

"Yes, I think so," Charles said, nodding. "She's weak."

Clarkson leaned closer to detect her breathing, then put a finger to her neck to be sure.

"She's fainted, and she may be in shock," he said. "Let's cover her with something. A blanket or a jacket. And loosen any of the clothing around her neck and torso to help with the breathing."

Charles gave an emphatic nod, ready to take any instruction the doctor might have given him. He balanced Elsie on his chest and shuffled himself out of his jacket, glad to be rid of the thing in the fire's lingering heat. He yanked his arms out through the sleeves and draped the jacket over her. Clarkson started to do the same, but bundled his jacket and placed it under her feet. Charles sought out the buttons clasping the high neck of her dress, and fumbled with them for a few infuriating seconds, before finally unfastening them. Her neck was now open to the air, free from any obstruction.

"You should lie her flat on the ground," Clarkson said. Carson did as he was told, but held his hand under her head so that it didn't touch the jagged gravel.

They waited. Carson looked around him and saw that Lord Grantham had returned; he was crouching beside him. Thomas was kneeling on the other side of Elsie, his mouth open.

"Mrs. Hughes, can you hear us?" Clarkson said.

There was no response.

Carson shifted his hand under her head and exchanged glances with the other men. He took her hand, but no one seemed to notice or care. He squeezed it.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Suddenly they saw her chest rise and heard a deep breath. She coughed, her head wrenching up.

"There, there now," Charles soothed.

Grantham let out a rush of air and rubbed his chin. "Thank God," he said. He turned and shouted at someone. "Has Alfred gone to fetch the fire brigade? And the buckets?" He heaved himself up and dashed off to join a group of others trying to contain the fire.

Elsie opened her eyes and squinted at the sky, furrowing her brow.

"You're outside,"

She relaxed at the sound of his baritone voice. The world was still coming into focus, both in space and time, but Elsie was still disoriented. She knew there'd been a fire, and that she was at Downton. Her head throbbed and there emerged the painful sensation of burns inside her mouth, but at least he was here. Which meant she was safe.

"Charles," Elsie said, her voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper. She squeezed his hand and smiled wanly at him.

Then the smile disappeared.

"Where's my boy?" Her eyes darted around. The world was still blurry to her.

Charles looked on, unsure of what to say. He shifted his hand to lift her up, so she could lean on him again.

"Everything's all right now," he said softly.

"No… where is he, my baby boy?" Her face crumpled. "Thomas…"

"She's delirious," Clarkson said awkwardly. "She'll need rest." He re-positioned his crumpled jacket under her feet.

Carson stole a look at Thomas. The man had raised himself up on his knees now, and looked at him, confused.

"Why is she saying that?" he asked.

Carson shook his head, blinking.

Hearing the sound of Thomas's voice, Elsie turned her head.

"Oh Thomas. You're all right." She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and let herself take in deep breaths.

"Excuse me," said Clarkson, getting up. "I need to see if there's anyone else I need to attend to." He hoisted himself up and trotted to a clump of people surveying the fire.

The commotion around them was getting louder. The Grantham women were crying and consoling one another. Branson and Lord Grantham were barking orders to the male servants, many of them running around with buckets. Off in the distance they could see a dust cloud forming behind a large truck from the local fire brigade. It was racing towards them.

The three of them stayed put for the next minute, Charles cradling Elsie, Thomas looking on with a furrowed brow. Her eyes remain closed but she took deep breaths.

Finally she opened them, and remembered everything - the fire, the smoke. She had to get back to work, had to get the maids organized, see if there was anything they could salvage. Elsie moved to get up but Charles held her back. And there was Thomas, staring at her strangely. She couldn't think why.

"We've got to get to the house, Mr. Carson," she said.

"No, you need to rest a little longer."

She gave Thomas a concerned look. "Are you alright?"

He nodded.

"Mrs. Hughes, just now you called me your… 'baby boy,'" he said.

She stared at him blankly.

Thomas shook his head. It must have been a mistake. She was delirious, like Clarkson had said. But there was still something odd about those words and the way she had said them.

Thomas looked at her again, seeking an answer.

Finally the memory of her half-conscious episode just moments before, flooded back to her, and Elsie felt a ripple of panic. She had just let slip her three-decades-old secret. This was hardly the way she had imagined it would happen. She quickly mused on what to do next. She could bury it all again, put it down to delirium. She could let things go back to the way they were. That was easier.

Then she felt Charles' strong hands grasp her more tightly. It was a small signal of support. He peered down at her and their eyes briefly connected. "Tell him," his face were saying. "I will be here for you afterwards."

"Thomas." She turned back to him. Thomas twitched his mouth in acknowledgement. "You're right, I did say those words. I just remembered. It was a slip of the tongue… because it was part of a truth I didn't care to reveal. But you deserve to know the truth, perhaps even here and now. This isn't something I want to take to my grave."

"What truth?" Thomas's eyes looked suspicious.

She knew the answer would hurt him deeply. She briefly conjured a worst-case-scenario: Thomas screaming, accusing her. No. Accusing Charles. She hated that Charles had been brought in to this, but she also knew she would never have had the strength to do this if Charles wasn't behind her. All this time he had been her bedrock.

"You're my son," she said.

Thomas gave a snort. "What?"

Elsie fixed him with a stare, gathering all the strength she had. "You're my son, Thomas. By blood. By God if you like." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry it came out this way. I've never known if I should even tell you. Your parents were good people. They raised you well. "

Thomas' mouth dropped open. The world around him, the sobs of the Grantham women and the shouting men, seemed to fade into nothingness. As if they were in a vacuum. Then his face contorted into a confused frown.

"You're saying I was adopted?" His hands slipped from his knees, to the ground.

"Yes. That's what I'm saying."

He shook his head, and stared at the gravel he was kneeling on. "How could that be?" His brow furrowed. "You're my mother?"

"It happened thirty years ago," she said, her voice still raspy, "when I was a young scullery maid in Edinburgh. I gave birth to you, but I couldn't work and raise you by myself. I didn't know what to do. Then I was introduced to your parents, who wanted a baby boy. They loved you very much… I always tried to see how you got on, even though I could never tell you who I really was."

Thomas looked dazed. He muttered something under his breath.

"What?"

"I said I always had a feeling… that I wasn't theirs." He shook his head. "I didn't look like them for a start. The other children always said so. And then my father talked about it when he was dying. He said something about finding the truth of my birth."

He looked at Elsie and swallowed hard. "I wondered about it for years afterwards. But then I didn't want to know either. So I didn't ask any more questions."

Elsie understood the feeling all too well. "It mustn't have been easy."

He nodded, and paused. His lip gave an infinitesimal tremble and he covered it with his hand, sniffing the air. He nodded again.

"Well then…" he said.

Someone was approaching quickly. It was Jimmy, running from the house and out of breath. "Thomas! Can you help us? We need men to help with the buckets."

Thomas nodded at him. "Yes, I'm coming now." He looked back at Elsie.

"This is a lot to take, but… all the more reason to be glad you're all right I suppose."

He started to get up.

Charles cleared his throat. "She saved your life you know."

"Shush," said Elsie, shooting him a look.

Thomas looked at them both. "I know. You helped too. Thank you."

He turned and ran towards the house with Jimmy. A house that had held all manner of secrets both upstairs and downstairs, would live to hold more. The fire was being contained, the flames mostly gone.

Charles glanced down at her again.

"How do you feel?"

"Terrible."

"I thought you might."

He held her tighter.

"You did the right thing."

"Did I?"

They looked on as Thomas jumped into the maelstrom of activity, heaving a bucket of water and running it to another man closer to the house, part of a human chain that had formed.

"The next few months won't be easy. He's had to push it all to one side for now. But he'll have to get used to the truth, and seeing you in a new light. Naturally, everyone else will find out about it too."

She sighed. "You're right. I should expect some difficult conversations in the next few months. God knows what Miss O'Brien will do with all this."

"You'll be ready for it. If I know anything about you, it's that."

She leaned into him. "I'll try my best. I'm just glad you'll be here."

"I'll always be here," Charles said, planting a kiss on her head.

"Thank God for that," she breathed. Elsie closed her eyes and turned to meet his lips with another kiss. "Now. Let's go see what we can do to keep this place standing."

They helped one another to their feet, and brushed off their clothes. She surveyed the dark soot on Charles' face, and tried to wipe it with her thumb. Her eyes twinkled. "You do look a mess, Mr. Carson."

"Speak for yourself, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, arching a brow.

They heard their names being called from the house. Mrs. Patmore was waving them over and rolling her eyes. She plugged her hands onto her hips. "What are you both doing?" she shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands. "We need you over here!" She flapped her arms at them, dismissively, and marched away.

"Duty calls," Elsie said with half a smile.

Charles held out his elbow and she placed her hand through it.

They hurried back towards the house, disappearing into the throng.

#

_(See? They were alright in the end. :) Hope you enjoyed this story. I've got a short epilogue coming, so stay tuned. Thanks for all the lovely, encouraging reviews.)_


	10. Epilogue

**Characters aren't mine, no copyright infringement intended, etc.**

_(Here's the final segment of this story - in four parts. Thanks to everyone reading and for all your reviews and encouragement!) _

Charles closed the back door behind him and made sure the latch was properly in place, before joining the woman standing a few feet away. Elsie took his arm, and they walked over the gravel together. She looked younger in the dim glow of the moon, but in the last few months a fog around her had also lifted. Telling Thomas the truth had made her different - more open, somehow. The younger man had struggled to come to terms with her revelation, and gone quiet for weeks. But in the last week or two he had finally agreed to hear more of her story. Miss O'Brien had made a few spiteful remarks, but Elsie had shot back each time with her own withering put-down.

When it got difficult, there were always the evenings with Charles. The small glasses of port in her sitting room and the sharing of grievances. He would nod, and murmur, and sometimes offer his advice. When it finally got late, they would stand and kiss each other goodnight. He would pull her close, savoring her, and she would relish every second. Then they would pull apart, with some difficulty, and go their separate ways. They had decided it wasn't right to let their courtship become a distraction for the household by letting it go any further. At least not yet. Now, things were settling, enough that Charles could ask her to join him again for an evening walk.

They moved slowly, meditating, the only sound coming from the crunching gravel beneath their feet. Charles spoke up when they got to a juncture in the path.

"Do you remember this place?"

Elsie nodded. "How can I not? This is where you first told me you couldn't live without me." She squeezed his arm, and he brought up her hand. He closed his eyes and kissed it for a long time. They stopped walking.

"You must know what I'm going to say."

Elsie tilted her head. "Must I?" She looked down at her hands. "Well, I suppose I have some idea."

"Believe it or not, it's something I've wanted to ask you for many years. It's taken me this long because, well, I've been a fool, really."

"Oh come now, Charles," she admonished. "I've been just as bad. Let's leave it at that." She took a breath. "So. You wanted to ask me something. Is it about replacing items from the ironstone tea service?" She gave him a small smile.

He took her other hand and held it in front of him, so they were facing each other. "No, that's not what I was going to ask." He ignored the loud hammering of his heart. "Elsie, will you be my wife?"

Her eyes softened and she took his hands to kiss them.

"Yes."

###

It was a beautiful wedding day. The normally grey skies of York opened to glorious sun as Charles and Elsie stepped out of the church. A first wedding for two people older than many of their own wedding guests. But that didn't matter. They stared at one another as they exchanged vows, and it was hard for the guests not to notice two people who were deeply in love. Their kiss at the end was short and light, but the look that passed between them said otherwise.

They passed the Grantham family, the servants, and Thomas as they walked down the aisle, towards the light of the afternoon sun. Thomas nodded as they went past. He looked relaxed, at the start of his own journey. They passed through the doorway into the bright glare of sunlight, shielding their eyes as they hit a wall of fresh air. Elsie looked up at Charles before they walked down the steps.

"I can hardly believe this is happening," she said.

"It is," he replied, beaming. "I'm so very glad."

###

Firelight cast a warm pall over the sitting room. The new cottage. A packed suitcase in the corner. They would stay here for most of the weekend. The household was still tense after the fire and it would be a few months before they could go away for a longer honeymoon. This would do for now. The wedding had been a happy occasion. A garden party at the house, a dance for the servants. The Granthams had been gracious in making it a celebration for the staff too.

They'd got to the cottage at dusk, still buzzing from the day's activities. It would be their first full weekend off in years. After a light supper, Charles stoked a fire and Elsie sat in a high-backed chair to read a book.

As it got later, Charles found himself poking the fire a little more than necessary, and Elsie reading the same paragraph several times over. A tension was rising between them.

Charles coughed. "It's getting late. We might want to think about, uh…" he cleared his throat, "… going to bed."

"Oh. Yes." Elsie's face flushed, and she shut her book. "Good idea."

They stood up simultaneously and almost bumped into one another.

"Sorry," Charles stammered.

Elsie flashed a nervous smile. "I'll… well, I'll get changed."

"Yes. Good," his voice boomed. "How about you go…"

"First. Yes, I can go first, and then-"

"Then I'll go."

"Right."

She slipped into the bedroom and shut the door behind her, closing her eyes and letting out a long breath. She stared at the double bed. There was only one in the cottage. They were married, now. And so…

Elsie unshackled her dress and corset and slipped into her nightgown, pulling a robe around her. She took the pins out of her dark hair and let it hang loose. She looked at herself in the mirror, then took another breath and crept out of the room.

Charles was sitting by the fire, tapping his foot and trying to read the book she'd put down. He jerked his head up when she entered and stared, feeling a pulse of desire. He nodded and walked past her into the bedroom. Elsie's eyes followed him. A few minutes later, he emerged in his robe and pyjamas.

"I just remembered I've got a bottle of claret in the cupboard. Would you-"

"Yes!"

He got out the glasses and they sat by the fire again, in their robes, nursing the smooth, red wine. Side by side on the small sofa, they talked about the wedding, the guests, Thomas, the work that still had to be done on the house.

At a pause in the conversation he took her hand and she felt a heat rising in her again. He kissed it, gently. Then he moved in to kiss her lips. She closed her eyes and surrendered to him, leaning back and humming softly with pleasure. His mouth left her lips and kissed her jawline, then her neck and collarbone, exploring places he had only ever been to in his dreams before tonight.

Then he stopped, and looked at her. She opened her eyes and understood.

They got up together from the couch and walked hand in hand to the bedroom. She untied her robe and he got behind her to pull it off, then kissed her shoulder. He grasped her waist and slid his hands down to her hips, before nipping her ear. She turned and moved her hands under his robe to push it onto the floor.

They fell onto the bed, and his hand explored her body more thoroughly. As Charles planted kisses across her chest, his hand wandered over her thigh, getting higher and higher, and then holding back, circling the region at the top that was the key to unlocking everything. Elsie bit her lip in desperate anticipation as his hand orbited the area, desire almost bursting out of every nerve ending.

She pulled his head to her and kissed him, pulled at his night shirt. Soon everything was off, and he looked at her, checking, concerned. She kissed him again and opened her legs to him. And then he was inside her, slow at first, causing her to wince, before she found she could bear his gentle thrusts and relax into soft moans. They soon became solid, regular movements, the sheet covering his lower half moving up and down with him, his large back heaving over her as he went.

She clasped at his arms, then his back, making light scratches, arching her neck, and as the rhythm increased her moans turned to cries. They were echoed by his own, deep-throated noises.

And then a white explosion of the senses and a louder cry that came from somewhere outside them, until Elsie realized it was from her own lips. They kissed, and he was lying next to her, breathing heavily.

Charles opened his eyes and pushed a strand of hair out of her face, glowing with sweat.

"Are you alright?" he rumbled.

She nodded. "Yes." Then she sighed, and turned to him. "Only…"

"What?"

"Only I wish we'd done this a long time ago."

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, deeply.

Later on she told him that when they finally went away for the honeymoon, she wanted him to take her home.

###

A vast slope of red and straw-colored grass stretched for miles ahead, flanked by bare trees and clouds that wanted to touch the glassy loch before them. They had travelled by train to Argyll, then the peninsula of Cowel, a place so pure in its natural beauty the heart ached to look at it. Great mountains towered over loch Eck. The scene was large but disarmingly still.

Charles and Elsie had taken a detour off the road to climb this hill, and when they finally caught their breath at the summit he had put his arm around her and they stood, hair tousled by the wind, mesmerised by the rugged landscape.

Elsie squinted into the biting wind, tears forming at the corner of her eyes in the cold. It was a harsh land, but breathtaking when seen in its entirety. She held her husband closer to her for warmth, uttering silent thanks for him as she so often did now.

Charles looked down at her and smiled. "Shall we go on?"

She nodded. "Yes."

He held out his arm. Elsie placed her hand through it and they carried on over the slope, facing the mountains and the sky.

**THE END **


End file.
